


Damaged

by AraniaDraws (AraniaArt), witchwood_hull



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, CARBB, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pet Shop Of Horrors fusion, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, Sharing a Bed, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Will probably be added to in the next couple of weeks, You don't have to know anything about Pet Shop Of Horrors to read this, author once killed a bird in a story and has regretted it forever, flashbacks (narrative device), mostly CA:TWS compliant, myths and legends, no actual animals are harmed in this story I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 13:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19174651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/pseuds/AraniaDraws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchwood_hull/pseuds/witchwood_hull
Summary: Steve Rogers meets a dog, foils Project Insight, finds a friend, takes a break, and discovers an answer to a very important question.Bucky Barnes meets a dog, fails a mission, gains his freedom, explores a city, does his job, and regains the joy of being human.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, this is my first Reverse Big Bang fic! I had a great time, both with the writing and working with Arania. Not only did her fantastic art give me a great place to start, but she was a fabulous beta reader, poking at the story every step of the way and challenging me to make it better.

 

Steve Rogers stood on the walkway over the observation bubble in the belly of Helicarrier Charlie and said, "Please, don't make me do this. I don't want to hurt you." He didn't feel silly about talking to an animal, as he'd been raised on his mother's stories, stories she had from her grandma and grand'da, stories _they_ had from _their_ grandma and grand'da. She didn't practice the old courtesies—they couldn't afford to spare food during the hard years of the Depression, never mind not having a stoop of their very own—but she made sure that her son understood how to behave, just in case. _You be respectful, Steven Grant, should you ever meet one of The Other Crowd. You mind your manners and they'll mind theirs._ "Please."

The massive black... It might have been a dog, or a wolf; the thing was huge, easily four feet at the shoulder and at least ten from nose to tail. Probably longer. Its eyes burned, a scintillating shift in shades of vermillion that made Steve remember the cold nights in Europe, the fire burned down to glimmering coals that gave plenty of heat but little smoke. It took a step toward him, head lowering a little, the motion making the faceted ruby star on its collar swing. Light glinted off of metal plates that curved over its snout, plates that looked like armor but might have been a muzzle or some other kind of restraint.

"Please—" The creature was on him and Steve brought his shield up in time to block the swipe of one enormous paw. The next two minutes were a blur of swipes and strikes and shoves, of grunts and snarls and growls and what sounded like a surprisingly human noise of frustration. It pawed at its face once and then the fight was on again.

_The muzzle gave, just like it was supposed to. Even with it on he could open his jaws, open them wide, so he could bite and rend and kill, just as he was made for (was he? He had a Purpose but was it this?). The man in the strange clothes (the familiar man, the familiar clothes, but he couldn't think about that because he had A Mission) turned away from him and he gathered his back feet beneath himself, sinking back on his haunches. An easy leap and the two of them went over the railing, landed hard on some outcropping, rolled perilously near the edge—_

_The man was up on his feet, again (the man wouldn't stay down he_ knew _that the man wouldn't how did he know that he couldn't think about that because he had A Mission) and then they went over the edge, plummeting down onto the glass of the observation bubble. The man had dropped something, a rectangle the size of the ID or access cards he was sometimes given for missions (but not_ this _Mission, this one was different the_ man _was different why was this so_ distracting _), something he was going to use to ruin The Plan. So he flicked his tongue out, flipping it into his mouth and holding it delicately away from any teeth—_

"Drop it," Steve said, firm and commanding, running more or less on autopilot. A tiny voice at the back of his head shrieked something about expectations and respect, but he ignored it. " _Drop it_ , now."

The dog didn't drop the chip, lunging forward, head down, to knock the wind out of him. Steve wriggled around until he could get the dog into a reverse choke and applied firm, continuous pressure to its throat until it stopped struggling. He hadn't wanted to hurt the creature, as aggressive as it had been toward him. He and the rest of the Commandos had had the same qualms over the Alsatians handled by the Axis soldiers during the war—it wasn't the fault of the _dogs,_ after all. Its jaw slackened and Steve, feeling nervous and horrified and just a little bit fascinated, pried its teeth apart enough that he could pull the chip from its mouth. He didn't have time to worry about the potential for compromise by the introduction of dog spit, just slipped it into a case on his belt and began a circle of the observation bubble. A third of the way around, he found his shield; halfway around and just as he was getting ready to leap for an overhanging hand-hold, pain screamed up and down his left leg from his hamstring. The dog was on its feet once more and had sunk its teeth into him.

Steve swung his shield, hard, the blow apparently stinging badly enough that the dog backed off just long enough that he could jump and get back up onto the apparatus in the center of the observation bubble. He made it up to where the chip array was waiting for him at the same moment Hill's voice told him he had less than thirty seconds before Project Insight fulfilled its purpose.

Just as Steve's hand touched the pouch where the replacement chip sat, the dog made a last leap, scrambling awkwardly over the railing and crashing into the side of the central pillar before righting itself. Hot, wet breath washed over the back of Steve's neck as the dog got its teeth into the back of his uniform; the world slewed sideways, then went dim under blotches of black and sickening starbursts of white edged with yellow and purple.

 _They had made him kill rats, dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands. He'd killed them until They were satisfied that the motions of pounce-grab-shake were reflex, were given not even a first thought. (He'd never killed rats until_ Them _, it wasn't his Purpose, but apparently the instinct was there). This man (the man had touched his tongue and the flavor/scents there were familiar too, leather and cordite and sweat and the last one pulled so hard at something inside him that he faltered, just for a second) this man was a threat, was, was ("what is a friend?" "Nothing a dumb mutt like you has to think about.") was going to, to—he couldn't, he would_ fail _and then he'd be_ punished _so he had to—_

 _There wasn't much room to maneuver, on the walkway, but there was enough. He had learned that the necks and brains of humans were delicate, that he didn't need much room at all to injure, disable,_ kill _. He caught the back of the man's clothing and whipped his head back and forth, ignoring the way it jarred his own head when the man slammed against the architecture. When he stilled, the man hung limp in his grasp—that had to be enough. Let it be enough, let Them be pleased, let it all be_ over _..._

 _He dropped the man (the taste of him on his tongue_ again _, blood-leather-sweat and why did he know how the man's_ sweat _tasted, how did he know the taste of the man's_ blood _, was it a malfunction? He wouldn't tell them when he went back, in case they wanted to do tests instead of letting him rest. This was the last time, They'd_ said _so, and he was so damn tired) and turned away, thinking about the fastest route back up to the flight deck._

His head rang like a firebell and it took far more effort than it should, but Steve managed to get up onto his hands and knees. He crawled up to the console where the array and its cheerfully twinkling lights waited for him, using it to pull himself to his feet. He could hear the weapons warming up over the noise in his ears and, swallowing against the feeling of acid rising in his throat, _finally_ slotted the chip. His knees gave out as he lifted his hand to his mouth and gasped, "Charlie lock."

"Okay, Cap, get out of there," Hill said, her voice calm and tone certain.

"Fire now," Steve said, his own words breathy as he struggled to get enough air.

"But Steve—"

"Do it! Do it _now_."

Hill was silent as the weapons fired.

 _The world was exploding all around him and the familiarity of it was terrifying. How, how,_ how _did he know this,_ why _did he know it, he had to be malfunctioning and badly. He would_ have _to tell, would_ have _to confess it to the handlers and to—Debris smashed into the stairway he had just set foot on, sending the entire structure swinging back down toward the observation bubble. He jumped off the stairs, aiming for the walkway where he'd first confronted the man (he'd killed the man—that was The Mission—but now he was thinking about the man being safe and he couldn't think about that because now was for extraction, escape, exfiltration) and caught the railing, the metal digging painfully into his sternum and the backs of his legs. As he struggled for purchase, another explosion somewhere overhead tilted the entire vehicle toward the ground and a huge support beam swept him off his perch, pinning him to the clear flooring._

Steve wasn't sure he could actually get himself out of the mess he'd made. It wouldn't be so bad, giving his life for the world one last time. Maybe it would actually stick. The water would be cold, but it wasn't going to be as cold as the water that had filled the Valkyrie. He probably wouldn't be conscious for it, either.

Just as he was thinking about whether he'd see everyone he'd lost on the other side, a sound caught his attention. The dying helicarrier was full of noise, reminding him of the factory in Kreischberg, but the high-pitched cries were so unlike the shrieks and moans all around him that he couldn't help noticing. Steve dragged himself up to the top of the nearby railing and looked down into the bubble.

The dog was down there, trapped under a beam and crying out in fear, pain, or both. The dog... had tried to kill him. Had bitten him, torn at him with its claws, had tried to snap his neck as if he were a rat. Now it was stuck and sounded so forlorn, looked so helpless, that it was impossible for Steve to stay where he was. He made his way down to the bottom of the giant hemisphere and leaned over the dog, meeting those shimmering eyes once more. Again, he remembered the Alsatians, remembered the unspoken consensus that none of the Commandos would kill them unless absolutely necessary. This dog was the same, no more or less, no matter how big it was or what its eyes looked like. "Hey. Hold still, I'll get you out, okay?"

A whimper was his only reply and Steve took it as acknowledgement. He got his hands under the edge of the beam, set his feet square under hips and shoulders, took a deep breath, and lifted. The dog's whining changed into a sing-songy yowl, paws scratching at the slick surface as the overbearing weight lessened.

"Just a little more, pal, hang on," Steve wheezed, his muscles burning and trembling as he kept pushing himself into a standing position, blood running hot down the back of his thigh and into his boot.

 _The man wasn't_ dead! _The man wasn't dead, he'd_ failed _, he'd failed and he wouldn't, They'd put him back in the chair and They would punish him and They wouldn't let him_ rest _—The man was_ speaking _to him, was... Was_ helping _him even though he'd just tried to kill him and he had to get away, had to report had to leave and he was trapped,_ trapped _while the un/familiar sounds of a giant in its death throes (explosions and fire and another man with a, a, a with something red, something_ wrong _, but the un/familiar man and his un/familiar clothes was right there and that made him invincible) deafened him._

 _The beam moved, there was just enough room for him to wiggle, to claw and fight his way_ free _he was free and on his feet and the man dropped the beam with an almighty clang and he couldn't help himself, he_ had _to get closer and see—_

"There you go," Steve said, dropping to his knees and then curling over the edge of the beam, letting his forearms bear his weight for a few long moments. He pulled his helmet off and raked a hand through his hair before he looked up to see where the dog was now. Maybe they could escape together, get up top and find a quinjet if there were any left. Unsure if the dog was the result of more serum experimentation or something more occult, he decided to hedge his bets. "Hey, pal. My name's Steve. You wanna come with me? I'm not gonna fight you any more. I'm sorry I had to fight you to begin with."

 _Steve the man's name was_ Steve _and that was familiar, too, like the face he could see now and he pawed at the muzzle, desperately, he needed it to come off so he could go through The Other Place and ask questions he_ had _to and maybe, maybe—The man had hands! The man, maybe he would help with the muzzle like he'd helped with the beam—_

Some piece of equipment or maybe just a piece of the ship hurtled down between them, smashing through the bubble a mere yard from Steve. The whole dome began to disintegrate from there outward, with Steve falling into the open air before he could say a word.

 _He watched the man—_ Steve— _fall for five whole seconds before he consciously chose disobedience. They were already going to punish him for failing his mission, what else could They do? As he launched himself out over the river, following_ Steve _downward, a voice in the back of his head made an approving sound._

Steve lost consciousness when he hit the water, more the result of every molecule of oxygen being driven out of his lungs by the impact than anything else. Getting the wind knocked out of him and the resulting difficulty his body had dragging in a breath—despite the deeply ingrained mammalian response of gasping for air due to being suddenly submerged—was probably what helped keep Steve's lungs from completely filling with water.

 _The water was cold, murky, but his eyesight cut through the gloom. The man was..._ There! _Tiny trails of silvery bubbles streamed upward from the man's clothing, drawing the eye. He kicked, clawing at the water, dragging himself closer to the man inch by hard-won inch; the man would die if he couldn't reach—_

 _Teeth in the back of the man's top, pinching hard around the metal at the center of the leather bands around his upper chest and he took a moment to look for the bubbles, to find_ up _. There. That way. He kicked out again, feeling himself change size—he'd gone smaller when the fight had gone out of him, when he'd been pressed helpless as a new-whelped pup to the glass—felt his toes spreading wide to catch more of the water under his feet so they could rise, rise, rise to the surface..._

No one saw the massive Black Dog pulling Captain America out of the Potomac river. No one saw the way it pushed him over onto his side, licked his cheek as water spilled out of his mouth.  No one saw it slip away along the riverbank, stumbling over roots as it disappeared....

_The concrete pipe he had crawled into had promised safety, but he was unable to settle, to rest, to sleep. Thoughts of the un/familiar man—was he safe, had someone found him, had he died?—kept bothering him, along with the urge to go back to Them. He was malfunctioning, he knew he was, he should go back—No. No, if he went back, They would punish him. But he should. No, he couldn't. He'd... He'd decided. No more._

 

 

 

 

 

"Hello?"

_He lurched into wakefulness as he jolted to his feet, having managed some sleep after all; night had fallen while he'd napped. His form filled the pipe, light spilling from the flames where his eyes should be, teeth bared and growl taking up what little room was left._

"Oh, there you are. If you bend your head down here I'll take that evil thing off of you."

_The man who stood before him wasn't afraid of him. He smelled strange, like incense and secrets and something else, something he couldn't name. It was familiar in the same maddeningly untraceable way the un/familiar man had been. He was offering to remove the muzzle... But..._

"I'd burn it, but I don't think that would be wise just yet. Come now, let me see it so I can get it off of you." He held out his hands, the long sleeves of his robe untouched by the mud and brambles that surrounded the pipe. His eyes glowed gold and violet in the low light, as if they held their own brilliance rather than reflecting it, and his hair was long, glossy, and neat as a pin. As if he hadn't walked through the brush to get to this place.

_The dog sat, then slowly lowered his head. Once the muzzle was off, he could flee... Or kill the secret-smelling man if necessary. Somewhere, deep down inside of himself, the traitorous little hope that he wouldn't have to flared to life._

"There, that's good. Just a moment, let me see..." The secret-smelling man's hands settled gently on the clasps at the back of the dog's head and neck, his eyes closed; there was a moment of stillness before his hands twitched and his fingernails sliced through magic binding and physical restraint alike. He drew the muzzle off and stepped back in the same motion, smiling as the dog's form wavered, shrunk, vanished into the shape of a man. "Hello there. Come home with me."

The Soldier's hands, shaking, rose to touch his face. He could hardly breathe, barely had the wherewithal to croak out _"Да."_


	2. One

New York

Six Weeks Later

 

Steve woke from another dream of the fight on Helicarrier Charlie; his dream-body had failed to lift the beam enough to free the dog. He shifted uneasily, reminding himself that in reality he _had_ succeeded at his self-imposed task. Not knowing if the dog had survived was... It bothered him, but there wasn't really much he could do. He'd already asked Jarvis to search and monitor the news for reports of a larger-than-average dog, which had resulted in a handful of leads. Each of them had turned out to be dead ends, and Steve had eventually resigned himself to accepting that the dog had probably perished. His own survival had been something of a miracle, after all. The ragged punctures in the back of his uniform top—one set looking stretched and stressed as if through shaking and the other smaller, neater—weren't _proof_ of anything outside of his own encounter with it.

He stretched, checking the time as he did so: ten to six. Plenty of time to get ready for and then head out on his morning run.

 

 

Just after lunch, Steve's phone rang. He frowned at the screen which simply said _Unknown Number_ followed by a string of unfamiliar digits. It was a local area code, meaning that it likely belonged to someone he'd met in the city. Perhaps it was someone from one of the charities that he and Pepper had worked with? "Hello."

"Hello, Captain Rogers?"

"Speaking," Steve said, frown deepening. The voice was as unfamiliar as the number; he knew from his work with Pepper that non-profits often had interns making phone calls.

"Excellent. I have a few candidates for you to meet, if you're available this afternoon? Three fifteen, please don't be late. I'll send you the address—the shop is quite easy to find, just a block southwest from the Hook and Ladder Company Number Eight building."

"I think you may have the wrong number," Steve said, certain now that it wasn't a charity calling him, "candidates for what?"

"For your therapy dog, of course," the voice said, tone pleasant and completely unruffled by Steve's lack of information on the subject. "They're all highly trained to assist veterans dealing with PTSD."

"I don't—" Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The situation had Sam and Natasha's fingerprints all over it; the two of them must have taken advantage of his recent trip to Malibu to see Tony and Pepper to set it all up. An impulse struck him and he nodded at no one. "You know what? Send me your address and I'll see you at a quarter after," he said. He didn't have to choose one, after all. A simple 'sorry, I just don't think I really clicked with any of them' and then they'd be done; he'd also get to pet some dogs. Steve _liked_ dogs. It was a win-win, really.

"Wonderful. I look forward to meeting you in person, Captain."

 

 

The shop was easy to find, though few people seemed to pay much attention to the narrow front. The architecture reminded Steve of storefronts when he was a kid, all clean, classic lines and fancy gilt lettering ( _exotic – PETS – unusual)_ on the bottom quarter of the display window as well as the center of the window in the door. Steve stopped to look at the painting that hung in the window, pinning the style as Asian and done primarily in ink but nothing beyond that. The painting showed what he assumed to be examples of the pets sold inside the shop. There were a pair of raccoons, except they weren't _quite_ raccoons; one of them was wearing a wide, conical hat and the other carried a... gourd? Almost as large as itself. There was what looked like a mermaid with vicious teeth and a body that seemed closer to that of a shark than the usual stylized half-fish. A tree branch hung over a snake coiled on itself and holding its tail in its mouth, dappling it with shade. What looked like a dragon perched on a rock, apparently observing the mermaid.

 

 

Steve pulled himself away from the artwork, opened the door, and stepped into a space that felt both cozy and somehow far larger than it looked. The place certainly didn't _look_ like a pet shop—there was a comfortable-looking conversational grouping of a sofa and chairs around a low table to his left, a wall with a pair of sliding doors to his right, and corridors leading deeper in as well as to the right on the far side of the doors.

A slender person was standing by the table, straightening up from setting an ornate tea service on the polished wood. They had dark, collar-length hair and were wearing something that looked rather like a dress but might have simply been a long shirt; the garment was patterned with a flower Steve couldn't immediately identify. They looked over their shoulder and smiled brightly as they turned to face him and said, "Detective—"

Steve shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Oh, no, of course. Forgive me, for a moment you looked just like someone I... have been missing," they said, their smile dimmed somewhat but seeming no less genuine. Their eyes were unusual, one gold iris and one violet. "You are, of course, the good Captain Rogers. Please, come in, be seated. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Steve, please," Steve said, crossing over to perch on the edge of the sofa. "Um, please. Thank you."  After a moment of considering—and remembering the ten days spent wandering a veritable rabbit warren of blogs, websites, and videos about sexuality and gender-identity, added, "May I ask what your pronouns are?"

The person cocked their head, frowning slightly as they thought over the question. "I am D," D said, sitting on the other end of the sofa—it looked like an early 19th century Chesterfield, with a peacock embroidered on the fabric stretched across the back cushion—and then leaning over to pick up the teapot. "Masculine pronouns are...fine." He poured for the both of them, putting the pot down and handing Steve a cup before gesturing at the other things on the tray. "Milk, sugar, honey, and lemon. Please help yourself."

"Sure. Thanks," Steve said, adding a little honey and a little lemon. The fragrant steam and the flavor of the tea took him back to some afternoon when Bucky's Ma—Winifred Barnes—had come to call and _his_ ma had made tea and he and Bucky had been allowed to have some out of the good china cups... And just like that, Steve couldn't swallow any more of the undoubtedly expensive brew. Ma always bought whatever was cheapest, because it was more the ritual and the fact that it was a hot drink that was important, especially in the winter, especially when he was sick.

Once D had sipped at his own cup of tea, he turned a gentle smile on Steve and said, "Now, Captain, are you ready to meet the candidates? I assure you, they're all very well-behaved and more than capable of assisting you in whatever capacity you may need assistance."

Steve nodded and set his cup down, not wanting to risk spilling anything on the dogs. "Yes. Sure, let's meet them."

"Excellent." D clapped his hands lightly and called out, "T-chan!"

A disgruntled-looking man in a chef's uniform, short and round in a way that suggested that he was barely out of his teens, emerged from the hallway. "Yes, boss?"

"Please bring us..." D's gaze slid sidelong toward Steve. "Bring us Bu-chan."

T-chan's face creased further as he outright scowled, pointed teeth flashing against the curve of his lower lip. "I dunno, boss, Bu-chan's... He's pretty scared."

D rose to his feet, gesturing at Steve as he did. "Then we will go to him," he said, beckoning to Steve. "Please, follow me."

"All right," Steve said, getting to his feet and falling into step with T-chan as the three of them made their way down the hall to the right.

"There are some important things to know about our dear Bu-chan," D said. "His previous owners did not treat him well at all. He is extremely particular about food—you must not attempt to interfere with his meals, unless it is to give him more food. He's well-behaved, very quiet, never makes a mess... I have a file to take home with you that will explain the intricacies of handling him." He came to a stop outside a door that looked almost like it belonged in a prison, the utilitarian metal at odds with the warm woods of the rest of the shop.

"I see," Steve said, doubt beginning to creep into his thoughts. What kind of therapy animal had a background like that? The food thing was understandable—even as a child Steve knew better than to try to get between a dog and its dinner—but weren't these kinds of dogs raised from puppies to do this sort of work?

"Bu-chan, I've brought you a visitor," D called, then pulled open the door.


	3. Winter 1945

_Bucky wrinkled his nose and tried to turn his head away as a cold, wet nose poked itself into his ear with a whuff, then delved inquisitively under his collar—the contrast between the cool softness of the dog's nose and the warm puff of its breath over his skin was both ticklish and annoying. "'M try'na sleep, Stevie, get this mutt offa the bed," he said, or tried; his jaw didn't seem to want to work quite right._

_"I am not a mutt." The voice was deep, deep like Steve's, like it belonged to someone so much bigger... He'd dreamed Steve was bigger, bigger and dressed in clownishly bright colors._

_"Notchyou, Stevie, the dog," Bucky said, forcing his right eye open. The world looked weird, blurry and black with brilliant white bleeding in at the edges. Maybe Steve had put the newspaper over his head, or a book. Steve was the kind of guy who'd do, did that, because it was easy and funny and didn't cause any real harm (except for the occasional torn page of newsprint, the odd lost place)._

_"Ah, you can hear me."_

_The voice had moved around to the left; Bucky was squinting hard against the white light that seemed to be all there was of the world. "Well, yeah."_

_"I am not Stevie."_

_"Sound like 'im."_

_"I sound like myself."_

_"Who're you?" Bucky closed his eyes, trying to recapture the warm lassitude from just after he'd awakened._

_"I have no fixed name," the voice said. "_ Ci du _, Grim,_ madra dubh _, Bl—"_

_"Black Dog," Bucky said, Sarah Rogers's voice echoing in the back of his mind at the words_ madra dubh _. That meant— "So I'm... I'm gonna die. Gonna die before Stevie does." He didn't bother fighting the slow upwelling of tears that came to his eyes at the idea. He'd been drafted into a war he didn't want to fight and he'd been right: it was going to be the death of him. "Steve!"_

_"Most of my kind are omens of death, yes," the Dog said, padding around the soldier's broken body. "You have the stories, inside you."_

_"Steve, an' his ma—Missus Rogers—they told me. I can't, I can't—Steve's still, he's out there alone—" He couldn't sit up, couldn't even_ move _. Bucky kept trying, however, because Steve was out there alone and Bucky had_ promised _—_

_"Yes. Out of all my kind, there are some who stand against death." The Dog stopped at Bucky's shoulder and leaned forward, putting themselves nose to nose with the human. "You too have spent your years standing against it. With your Steve."_

_"Yeah," Bucky said, opening his eyes to find the world blurry black with bleeding brilliant edges once again, only this time there were two embers in the black. "Yeah, always lookin' out for Stevie. He's a... He's... Fuck, he's a damned_ idiot _, sometimes." He made an amused noise. "My idiot, though."_

_"There are some things I cannot do for you," the Dog said, scintillant eyes holding Bucky's gaze. "But there are some things I can. I will speak truthfully with you, now. You are dying. Your heart's blood freezes to the ice and snow below you, and will only stop when your heart does."_

_"You're a black dog," Bucky said, feeling his eyes prickle again. It was more from the fact that he couldn't blink, couldn't look away from the coals that hung above him, than any emotion. "'Course I'm dying."_

_"Do you wish to cross to the other side? I will escort you through the veil." The Dog touched its nose to Bucky's, then to his forehead. "For you, however... For you, with the stories inside you and your years standing against death... You, I will offer a chance. If you wish to continue protecting others, standing against death and darkness, I will take you as apprentice."_

_"Apprentice?" Bucky wanted to laugh at the idea of becoming the apprentice to a Black Dog, or a journeyman Black Dog, like Thomas Paul the journeyman plumber who lived on the second floor—Aw, fuck, he didn't live in that building with Thomas Paul any more, did he? And Steve wouldn't, not if Bucky wasn't there. "Can—If I say yes, can I, would you let me look after Steve?"_

_"It would be possible," the Dog said, carefully, "but as I said, there are some things I cannot do for you. I can help your body to mend, but I cannot perfect it in an instant. It will take time. And then I must teach you, to move through the world as only we Dogs can, to find the souls that need guidance and protection, and how to give them those things. If you can be patient, if you can learn, I will do my best to allow you to look after your Steve."_

_"Yes," Bucky said, "fuck_ yes, _I'll do it, I can learn, I can't move but I always got good marks in school so I'll be fine—"_

_The Dog's tongue flicked out, dabbing at Bucky's left cheek. "It will take time. It will be difficult. It will hurt."_

_"I survived—" A wash of memory, of Zola's face and the bright light over the table and of an injection, five injections, twenty-five, too fucking many. "I survived... Zola. I can do it." He would have squared his shoulders if he'd been able to move, resolve settling over him like a shroud._

_"I do not know what a Zola is, but I know your heart is steadfast. Very well. Give me your full, true name."_

_"My name's James Buchanan Barnes," Bucky said, barely holding back his rank and serial number._

_"Do you, James Buchanan Barnes, freely and without coercion give your immortal soul unto the ranks of The Black Dogs, to walk between the worlds of the living and the dead, guiding those who are lost, protecting those who are vulnerable, and shepherding through the veil those seeking rest?"_

_"I do," Bucky said, a broken sort of snort following it as he felt like he was making an absurd kind of wedding vow._

_The Dog licked Bucky's right cheek, then asked again._

_"I do," Bucky said, more soberly this time._

_One big paw came to rest over Bucky's erratically-beating heart, pressing the man painlessly into the bloodstained snow beneath his coat, and the Dog asked a third time._

_"I do," Bucky said._

_"It is done," the Dog said, before Bucky could say anything else. The Dog's paw sank through Bucky's skin, the shape of the creature blurring at the edges as its form was pulled down into the human's body. "I will sustain you as you heal. It will take time, it will be painful, you will curse me before you praise me. I will not forsake you."_

_"Okay," Bucky said, blinking for the first time in several minutes._

_"Ah..." The Dog paused, listening, then finished settling into Bucky. "People are coming."_

_"Oh," was all Bucky could say before sensation began returning to his body. It started as pinpricks in fingers and toes; by the time the small squad of Russians reached him, he was retching and incoherent with pain, blood loss, and hypothermia._


	4. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original artwork that sparked the story is posted at the end of this chapter.

The interior of the room was dark, save for the shaft of light that sliced through from the corridor. Steve blinked as a massive black wolfhound, blue-white flames where its eyes should be, lifted its head and stared straight at him for three long heartbeats. It looked so much like the dog from the helicarrier that he opened his mouth, taking a breath to speak; one more blink and the dog vanished, leaving a humanoid shape huddled on the center cushion of a sofa. The lights in the room came up slowly, a warm gold that reminded Steve of the lamps of his childhood—how was it that coming to a _pet shop_ (or whatever this place was) had done more to unearth memories of his past in such a short span of time than any other place in the city?

The sight of the dog—or what he'd thought was a dog, maybe it had been a combination of the light and shadows moving as the door opened—had also reminded him of the dream he'd had that morning. He was almost immediately distracted by the fact that there was a _person_ sitting on the sofa. This was a pet shop _and_ he'd been called down to see dogs, so why was he looking at a person? Bu-chan's knees were spread wide, his forearms resting on his thighs, his head down. Dark hair hung over his face, giving him the appearance of either exhaustion or defeat; he didn't look up as the room grew brighter.

"That's not a dog," Steve said, sharply, outright glaring at D. He crossed his arms over his chest, drawing himself up as tall and straight as he ever had as he continued with, "I need you to explain what you think you're doing here."

"You are correct, Captain, he is not a _dog_. Not the usual sort you see on the street. Didn't your mother tell you the stories?" D's expression was calm to the point of serenity. "I'm sure she did, a diligent student like her."

"The stories—What do _you_ know about my mother?" Steve's voice was hard. He was _famous,_ after all. It didn't take much work to unearth the names of his parents and their backgrounds and come to the conclusion that _of course they were good Irish lads and lasses and held the old stories in high regard..._ The implication that this D _knew_ something about his mother when he was the last person on the planet who actually did sat poorly with him. He opened his mouth to tell D what he thought when he caught motion from the corner of his eye; he turned to look.

The motion had been Bu-chan lifting his head; he was staring at some point behind Steve.

Steve stared, too, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he'd lived through. It was the man's _face_ that drew his eye, not the metal arm or the strange clothing he wore. "Bucky?" He whispered the nickname, irrationally certain that he would spook the ghost on the couch by being too loud. The man's face was different—drawn, dark circles under his eyes, paler than Bucky had been on the table in Austria—but Steve _knew_ it. Hope and suspicion began to vie for his attention as he stood there, because _how?_ How could this possibly be _real,_ and if it wasn't real then _why?_ Why would someone do such a thing?

Bucky's eyes flitted to Steve, then away; he hunched over further and said nothing.

His surprise and delicate hope were suddenly crushed by a towering wrath that built under Steve's sternum.  He planted himself between D and the sofa, letting his hands drop to his sides, and said, "What the hell are you trying to do? Is this some kind of sick prank? You clearly know who I am. You have sixty seconds to explain."

D held up his hands, palms out toward Steve, and leaned over slightly so he could see the figure on the couch. "It's fine," he said, soothingly, "just a bit of a misunderstanding. You're safe, Bu-chan, and so is the Captain."

Bucky did not relax from where he now sat, ramrod straight, knees and ankles together and hands digging into the edge of the cushion on which he was perched. His eyes shimmered with a hint of the blue-white fire from earlier, brows drawn together above them with his anxiety.

"Captain, please do keep your voice down. As I said, Bu-chan—"

"His _name_ is James Buchanan _Barnes,_ " Steve snapped, drawing on his experiences with genuinely pissed off superior officers to put steel into his own voice. "If this isn't some twisted televised _joke._ Answers. _Now._ " He'd seen a few episodes of television shows where people were given news of some kind, allowed to get worked up, and then informed that whatever they'd been told was in fact a lie. How anyone could see it as anything but torment was beyond him, and he had no interest in being another victim.

"It's no jest," D said, as unperturbed as ever. "I shan't recount all that's been done to him—it's all in his file—but I will tell you that I found him after that terrible mess in the capital. I'd been looking for him for years."

"You—The—DC? You found him in DC?" Steve looked over his shoulder at Bucky (if it _was_ Bucky), who hadn't relaxed except for his hands.

"Yes, I did. On the bank of a river, hiding from everyone." D shifted to Steve's left, so he could see both men at the same time.

"What did you mean about looking for him?" His old guilt over not having gone back to look for Bucky's body brought Steve's shoulders up, his gaze dropping to the floor.

D nodded once. "There have been rumors for the last half-century, a ghost story of sorts. Tales of enemies of HYDRA slain by mysterious means, the only common thread being sightings of a large black dog. I wouldn't normally pursue a _madra dubh,_ but there were stories of the same dog taking a human guise... Which would make it either an unusual Black Dog or a werewolf. Either would be worth meeting."

"A werewolf," Steve said, guilt mostly forgotten and skepticism at the fore.

"They're not particularly common," D said with a shrug. "That is beside the point."

"Yes, it is." Steve turned to face the man who looked like Bucky, the familiar features reawakening hurt and hope alike. "Bucky?"

Bucky glanced at Steve, then went back to looking at the spot on the wall.

"Bucky, hey, it's me. Steve." Those blue eyes flicked to him, then away once more. Steve looked back to D and said, "If this isn't a terrible joke, then... Then I'm going to take him home with me. He needs help. He's... It's not called shell-shock or battle fatigue any more, but he–he needs..."

"Again, I assure you that I am not deceiving you," D said, sounding as calm as ever. "And of course you may take him home. However, I will insist on having the proper forms filled out."

"Paperwork? Really?" Steve raised his eyebrows. "He's not a _pet_."

"No. It is a formality that protects all of us. You know what to expect and what your responsibilities are, and he has a safe place to go should you break one of the agreements or something happens to you."

"My responsibilities are to get him somewhere safe and get him help," Steve said, tone still firm. Even if the guy _wasn't_ Bucky, he would still do what he could for him. And if it all turned out to be some sort of horrible joke, well. Pepper knew a _lot_ of very good lawyers.

D sighed and folded his arms over his chest.

Ignoring D, Steve turned back to the sofa. His entire manner softened as he spread his fingers and held his hands out to his sides, making his posture as open and inviting as possible. "Hey, Buck. Bucky. Let's get you out of here, okay? You can come home with me, all right?" He tempered his tone to match his mien, soft and calm.

The man on the sofa—James Barnes, _Bucky_ —stared at Steve, his eyes still shimmering with hints of fire. "I know you," he said, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah. Yeah, Buck, it's me. Steve." Steve tried to smile, giving up after about three seconds. "It's good to see you. You ready to go?" A confusing mish-mash of feelings still simmered under his skin; _good to see you_ hardly covered a tenth of it.

"Steve," Bucky said, the name just barely turning into a question at the end. His brows knit and he dropped his gaze to the floor, his expression shifting between looking as if he was solving complex equations and blank. After nearly a minute of silence, he added, "Can't."

"What do you mean—" Steve turned back to D. "What does he mean, can't? He's, he's not a _prisoner,_ you can't keep him here—" Panic was rising through Steve, pushing at him to move, to act, to grab Bucky's hand and _run_.

"And that is the other part of the paperwork," D said, as unaffected as ever. "In order to keep both clients and... the beings residing here safe, they cannot leave the shop until released into the care of an approved client."

"That still sounds like he's a prisoner," Steve said, not at all placated. He turned back to the sofa, stepping forward and reaching out to the man sitting there, not thinking about the way he might come across as he said, "Let's go, Buck. I'm taking you home."

Barnes—Bucky—Bu-chan—whoever he really was, he flinched hard at the stern voice and the hand coming for him; he threw himself sideways, nearly cartwheeling away from the big blond man, scrambling across the floor until he could tuck himself into a defensible nook under a heavy table that was positioned at an angle across the corner of the room.

That table hadn't been there a moment ago, Steve was _certain_ about that. He was also certain that his heart was breaking all over again, watching Bucky retreat from him as if he'd been struck. "Buck, Bucky, hey. It's okay. It's just me, right?" He dropped to one knee, peering under the table.

D sighed and counted to five as Steve continued to try to coax Bu-chan out from his cave. Finally, he said, "Captain."

The uncharacteristically sharp note in the heretofore mostly-bland voice brought Steve's head around once more. "What?"

"I cannot release him to you if you're only going to frighten him," D said, arms crossed and expression hard. "He's had enough of that."

"I wasn't—" Steve looked down, rubbing the back of his neck as he did. "It wasn't intentional."

"Again, Captain, everything I do is for the protection of the creatures under my care.  Will you do better?"

"Absolutely," Steve said, slowly rising to his feet and then taking two steps backward. "Yes. All right." He ran a hand through his hair. "The paperwork?"

With a flourish of his hand, D produced a sheet of paper from what appeared to be thin air; he also brought out a heavy, ornately-decorated pen and placed both items on a console table that stood just inside the doorway. "There are three conditions to which you must agree before I will allow your Bu-chan to go home with you. They are listed as follows on this contract. First, you will show him kindness, especially when things seem darkest. It does not matter if he breaks a dish or your heart, you will be _kind_." D paused just long enough to meet Steve's eyes, then continued.

"The second condition has to do with this," D said, producing a contraption of curved metal plates. "It's a muzzle—"

"I don't want it," Steve said, shaking his head. "He's free, he's not—No."

"Bu-chan and I have discussed it, Captain." D's voice was kind but firm. "This was his choice."

The words made Steve's breath catch in his throat. _Allow him the dignity of his choice. He must have thought you were damn well worth it._ What could he do in the face of it but what he'd done the first time around? "What." He cleared his throat. "What is it?"

"While it is now a muzzle, I will change it into a vest for Bu-chan, as he's requested. While he wears the vest, he will be no more and no less than your dog to all who see him, save those with... It has several names. Sight, The Sight, Second Sight." He waved a hand. "Very few have the talent. When Bu-chan is more comfortable around people, he will wear it less. However, if you force it on him—"

"Never—"

D gave Steve a sharp look before he spoke again. "If you force it on him, refuse to allow him to take it off, or otherwise attempt to use it to control him, he will return to my care."

"If I had my way he'd never wear it again," Steve said, feeling mildly sick at the thought of Bucky unable to transform—and that was something he really wanted to discuss, whether with Bucky or D or both.

"And I believe you."

Steve nodded once. "You said three conditions. The third?"

"The third condition is that when he is able, you will allow him at least one night in seven to fulfill his duties," D said.

Steve gave D a funny look. "What duties?"

"To walk between the worlds of the living and the dead, to guide those who are lost, to protect those who are vulnerable, and to shepherd through the veil those seeking rest," Bucky said.

His voice was soft, rough, _familiar._ Steve felt the same kind of awestruck gratitude he'd found in the small room of horrors in Austria filling him at the sound of it. The content of the words was... They reminded him of something, but he had more pressing things on his mind. He held out his hand for the pen. "I agree. Where do I sign?"

 

 


	5. Spring 1945

_They've left him alone for a few days, now, save for the regular visits from the guards with food and water and replacements for the bucket that passed for his toilet. Bucky was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but at least he wasn't bored—the Black Dog had kept his word through the long months of recovery, helping Bucky's body heal (though it was healing strangely quickly all on its own, the Dog reported). More than that, however, his presence had helped sustain Bucky's sanity—the doctors and technicians didn't speak to him much, and when they did it often wasn't in English. He had some scraps of German, French, and Russian, but most of his vocabulary was either profanity or a variation on "who are you/what do you want/halt/don't shoot", which was only entertaining to his captors the first few times he'd said anything. Well, he'd also managed to learn_ Shut up! _after several weeks of talking with the Dog—Bucky was the only one who could hear it._

_The guards, the boredom, even the awfulness of having lost his arm—all of it was forgotten: the Dog had promised him that his apprenticeship would begin today._

_"Now, James, the first step in our partnership is to learn to move through to The Other Place. Close your eyes and listen, as one often hears The Other Place before one can see it._

_"Why?" Bucky shook his head. "I mean why do you hear it."_

_"Hearing is the first sense you gain," the Dog said, patiently. "You may be grown, but in this you are an infant once more."_

_"Sure," Bucky said, not feeling particularly insulted. It helped that the Dog's tone had been matter of fact. "All right, what does it sound like?"_

_"It is different for everyone. The Other Place I know will be nothing like the one you will know, and another Dog would have a third sort of Place entirely. You simply must listen for something that is..._ different _."_

_"Oh. Right. I'll give it a try, then." He sat up straight, closed his eyes, and listened, but all he heard was the soft sounds of the building around their cell. "Hm..."_

_"Keep listening. Listen to the sounds_ under _this world."_

_"What?" He frowned and squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would help. The sounds under this world? Now that the Dog mentioned it, he thought he could hear something just below the thrumming of the ventilation system... It sounded like... It was... No, it slipped away. He sighed and opened his eyes._

_"You did well for your first try," the Dog said. "Try again."_

_He did. And again, and again, and again, until he was covered in an unpleasant layer of sweat and his dinner had arrived. Bucky grumbled as he ate, leaning against the cold block wall. "I'm not stupid. Why can't I just_ do _this?"_

_The Dog's voice was surprised. "You have gotten closer to The Other Place on your first day than most others get in their first_ month _."_

_"Yeah?" Bucky perked up a little at that. "That's not so bad."_

_"Yes. Since you have, I will tell you the rules of The Other Place. It is a crossing-place, a small thin place in the border between this world and_ Faoi-chnoc _. You will see... I do not know what_ you _will see, but whatever it is, you cannot stay. If you see a friend or loved one, you must remember that they are not real and cannot see or hear you."_


	6. Three

Going home with Steve was both easier and more difficult than either of them had anticipated. It took Bucky, even in dog-form, a solid ten minutes and a review of some of the data Natasha had released into the wilds of the internet before he could bring himself to step over the threshold of the shop.

"You know, it took me a few weeks to get comfortable going outside," Steve said, from where he leaned against the door jamb. "Given the way I woke up—I was pretty sure it was a trap—and how bright and... And just _overwhelming_ everything was, it was... Well, I kept finding excuses to stay inside." He bit his lip, looking out across the street. "Still do, sometimes."

Bucky disliked the distress he could see and hear in Steve's posture and voice, so he sidled up to the man and nudged at his hand with his nose.

"Hm?" Steve looked down, a small smile on his face as he automatically ran his hand over Bucky's head. "Whenever you're ready to go, okay?"

Bucky stayed close to Steve, sometimes pressing closer still if he felt Steve tensing, as they walked north along Varick Street. It was almost impossible to believe that he was free of HYDRA's ownership—if not their influence, given the dreams he'd been having—but leaning into Steve's leg helped ground him. Eventually, they cut east to Canal Street, continuing across and northeasterly until they picked up 6th Avenue. There were so many _people,_ wearing so many different clothes and _scents_ ; so many _sounds,_ so many eye-catching advertisements. While it was a little overwhelming, it was still just New York, too, motion and energy and a wonderful swirl of humanity not so different from what it had been... At least if the flickery fragments of memory he had were accurate.

D had presented him with the modified muzzle just before they'd left the shop, a combination harness and vest made of a sturdy red fabric and embroidered with white block letters reading _Service Dog – do not approach while working_ on the left side and _Faolán_ on the right. Bucky had chosen the name himself in order to short-circuit the argument that Steve had been having with D—Steve was correct in his assertion that Bucky had been denied his own name for long enough; D had been correct in _his_ assertion that people would ask questions if Steve named his service dog after (or his service dog just 'happened' to come with the same name as) his presumably deceased best friend. Choosing the name for himself had been an exercise in autonomy and had the side effect of moving Steve along to another argument.

So now Bucky walked alongside Steve, crisp red vest contrasting nicely with his shimmering black coat, his head up as he kept a lookout for potential problems. Despite the fact that they were in Manhattan at the beginning of rush hour, the crowds weren't too bad—it probably helped that they were headed into Midtown while everyone else wanted _out._

"I've been thinking about when we get home," Steve said, as they passed a bicycle shop. "I'll need to introduce you to Tony, first. He's... Well, he can be kind of a lot. And then I have to tell him..."

Bucky looked up as Steve sighed instead of finishing his sentence. After Steve stayed silent for another fifteen seconds or so, Bucky nudged at Steve's hand; when Steve looked down at him, he tilted his head in what he hoped was an inquisitive manner.

"I'm going to take... I'm taking leave. A sabbatical. I've..." Steve shook his head and stopped for a red light. "I've never done that. Not while I've been healthy, anyway."

"We all need mental-health days," a curly-haired kid with an actual camera around his neck said, seeming to speak to thin air. The wind being in Bucky's favor, he sniffed it; as far as he could tell, the kid might not be exactly what he seemed—there was a hint of something odd about the smell of his sweat—but it wasn't threatening. He kept an eye on him anyway.

"Yeah," Steve said, giving the kid a surprised look. Then the light changed and everyone started moving again.

 

 

 Later, as they walked along the length of the Public Library, Steve said, "One thing we'll have to do while I'm off is visit the library. I haven't gone inside in... Years."

Bucky looked up at Steve, bumping his nose against Steve's hand at the strange look on the man's face. The smile he got for the touch was satisfying in a way that very few things had been in the recent past.

A few minutes later, they're walking around the block taken up by the base of Tony's tower. About two-thirds of the way around, Steve swiped a card through a mostly-hidden reader and led the way through a narrow gate. Fifteen feet to the left of the gate was a nondescript personnel door requiring another swipe; through that door was a utilitarian corridor about fifty feet long that ended at an elevator. Bucky watched Steve press his thumb to the only button on the wall, which didn't exactly look like the call button Bucky was expecting. When he tried to remember what kind of buttons elevators were _supposed_ to have, he couldn't and gave it up as a bad job.

"Someone might be able to get in to the building this way, but unless they have clearance, they're stuck here. And even if they _do_ get into the elevator, Jarvis will keep them from getting further," Steve said while they waited for the doors to open.

"Good afternoon, Steve," said a voice; Bucky shifted into his much larger, much more intimidating form and put himself between Steve and the now open doors with a growl. He couldn't _see_ anyone, and no matter which way he swung his head, he couldn't smell them.

"Hello, Jarvis," Steve said, doing his best to keep his voice even as Bucky changed size. D had briefed him on Bucky's history, ending with the fact that it had been _Bucky_ on the helicarrier, and he still hadn't quite wrapped his head around it. Putting a hand on Bucky's shoulder, he continued with, "This is... This is Faolán. He's...staying with me. Could you please let me introduce him to everyone?"

"I will need to add him to the security protocols," Jarvis said, and now Bucky could pinpoint the speakers from which the voice issued. "I'm sorry, Steve, but Sir—"

"No, that's fine." Steve took a deep breath and patted Bucky. "Where's Tony?"

"Sir is in the workshop. Would you like to go there?"

Bucky slowly shifted back to the size he'd been before, a form that was deliberately smaller than his usual dimensions when he was in Dog form. He put one foot on top of Steve's to get his attention, then looked from Steve to the empty elevator and back.

"Yes, please, Jarvis. Thank you." To Bucky, he said, "Jarvis is an AI. He basically runs the tower, and if you need to know where someone is, or if you have questions about pretty much anything, Jarvis can tell you.

"Tony, on the other hand... Tony is great, but he can be... abrasive? Especially if you're not used to him. He talks a _lot_ , about all kinds of things, but he's really smart. He likes building things." Steve starts to step into the elevator, only to find himself blocked by Bucky.

He warns Steve off with a soft growl, then lowers his head and starts sniffing along the threshold. There are a hundred different scents, most of them related to the mechanical nature of the elevator and the building itself: grease and metal and warm electronics and dust and exhaust. Exhaust? Another sniff. Yes. The elevator shaft and the ventilation system for at least two levels of parking must cross somehow. Edging into the cab of the lift itself brought the faintest and fast-fading scents of people, Steve's being the strongest among them. When it was clear, Bucky sat down and gave Steve an expectant look.

"Can I come in, now?" Steve said, brows lifted.

Bucky snorted at him, then yawned.

"How is it that you're so much like yourself when you don't look like yourself?" Steve smiled at Bucky as he joined him. "Oh, and there aren't really any buttons for the floors that this elevator stops at. You just tell Jarvis where you want to go."

"I can also list destinations and you may indicate where you'd like me to stop, perhaps by barking or lifting a paw?" Jarvis's tone was no different from when he'd spoken earlier, as if communicating with a dog wasn't strange.

Bucky, grateful that Jarvis had accepted him immediately, lifted his left front foot from the floor for a moment before lowering it again.

"Very good. You will be arriving at Sir's workshop shortly." The doors closed and the cab began to rise.

A little over a minute later, Steve waited as Bucky cautiously cleared the alcove outside the elevator doors. The thumping of a bassline had Bucky flattening his ears, but Steve leaned over and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leading the way down the hall.

"Hang on, okay? He'll turn the music down as soon as he sees us," Steve said; he stepped forward and Bucky went with him.

 

  

Tony's workshop was... It struck a chord in Bucky, bringing up the same mildly-maddening un/familiarity as Steve had the first time he'd seen the man. The smell of singed plastics and welding, of flux and solder, of cut metal and under it sweat and coffee stirred up impressions of long nights and being given... something. He could almost feel the weight of it in hands he didn't have at the moment.

"Cap! What brings you to my humble abode-away-from-my-humble abode?" Tony smiled as he walked toward them, coming to a stop at the end of a workbench as he caught sight of Bucky. "And you've brought a friend."

"Yes," Steve said, his shoulders relaxing as he looked down at Bucky. "This is Faolán, and he's, uh, he's my...service dog."

That had been another argument, because Steve had almost categorically and automatically rejected doing _anything_ that smacked of taking Bucky's agency from him. It had taken both D and Bucky to convince him that becoming Steve's service dog, at least at first, was actually returning control to Bucky—protecting and guiding Steve was an integral part of _who Bucky was,_ especially now, and a part of him that HYDRA had definitely suppressed.

"Service dog," Tony said, cocking his head to one side as he considered Faolán. "I could build you something to fetch your slippers—"

"Tony—"

"—Just saying, Spangles, that it's cheaper to feed a robot—"

Bucky huffed, half amused and half insulted.

"A robot's not going to be able to help me with PTSD," Steve said, voice as stiff as the sentence had been abrupt.

"Depends on who's building it," Tony said, easily, folding his arms loosely and leaning a hip against the bench. "He's not coming with you on missions."

"That's the other thing I wanted to tell you," Steve said, looking down at Bucky for a moment before kneeling beside him, one hand resting on Bucky's shoulder. "I'm taking a three-month sabbatical, starting tomorrow."

Tony's brows shot up at that. "Wow. Okay, that's... You're serious about this, okay. That's good. Uh... Anything else I should know? A secret wife, secret boyfriend, secret side-gig as a HYDRA—"

Growling, Bucky put himself between Steve and Tony. How dare this idiot suggest that Steve was anything like HYDRA?

"Calm down, Rin-Tin-Tin," Tony said, frowning at him, "I know Cap's not HYDRA. I mean, if he was, he pulled off a hell of a coup to put himself in charge—Seriously, you can _stop_ growling at me any time."

Bucky didn't, not until Steve said, "It's all right, Faolán," and gave him another pat.

To Tony, Steve said, "There's nothing else to tell you right now. We're going to go up to my place and get settled in."

"Sure, fine," Tony said, half turned away. "Ask Jarvis for whatever you need for your new pal, there. And don't forget, he's your responsibility, Rogers. I'm not walking him."

"Of course," Steve said. "Thanks, Tony."

Tony waved a hand and walked back toward his current project. "Thank me by keeping him off the furniture in the common room."

Another huff, Bucky definitely feeling insulted by the dismissal.

"I know," Steve said, getting to his feet. "He's like that. Come on, let's go home."

  

 

Bucky immediately shouldered Steve aside as the apartment door swung open, shifting into his much larger form as he did so. Clearing the place didn't take long at all, thanks to his keen senses; when he returned to Steve, he sat and watched the man expectantly.

"Thanks," Steve said, sounding sincere. He closed the door behind them, then knelt beside Bucky once more in order to remove the vest. "There."

The moment the vest came off, he slipped through to The Other Place and then back into his human body. "Mm." Bucky stretched and stood up straight; he glanced at Steve before turning his attention to the massive windows that looked out over the city. "Thank you."

"Sure," Steve said, hanging up both the vest and the leash before toeing his shoes off. "So, um—"

"Excuse me, Captain, but there appears to be an unauthorized person in your apartment and I—"

"It's all right, Jarvis, I'm authorizing it."

"I must add him to my security protocols and—"

"Not yet, please," Steve said, looking up at the ceiling. "Just... I know Tony reviews any changes made, and I don't... It's a delicate situation."

"Captain, this is highly irregular."

"I know, Jarvis. It's... It's difficult to explain, and it's not that I want to violate security protocols—"

"Not true," Bucky murmurs, more to Steve's reflection than anything else. He still didn't know _how_ he knew that Steve would happily ignore rules and regulations if they kept him from doing the right thing, but at least he knew it.

"—But it would only be for a little while. Until Bucky is more comfortable around people." More specifically, comfortable around the Avengers.

"Well." Jarvis was quiet for a few moments, then said, "I will allow it on one condition, Captain."

"What's that?" Steve said, relaxing a little at the apparent willingness of the AI to bargain with him.

"Allow me to create an entry for him in my security protocols. It will be held in a secure folder until such time as he is ready to be added. This will allow me to meet Sir's programming requirements while also honoring your request."

"Sure, Jarvis, that will be fine. This is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He, uh... Well, he's living here for the foreseeable future."

"Thank you, Captain. Sergeant, would you like to be addressed as Sergeant?"

Bucky shook his head at the question. "No. Um." He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt for a moment. "Faolán's fine. For now."

"Certainly, Faolán," Jarvis said.

"Thanks, Jarvis," Steve said. To Bucky, he said, "Let me show you around, okay?"

  

 

Steve's tour of his apartment had been momentarily derailed by a discussion of the joys of 21st-century plumbing innovations—specifically, copious amounts of hot water—when Jarvis spoke up once more.

"Excuse me, Captain, but Sir is on his way up to your floor."

"Jarvis, I asked—"

"Forgive my interruption, but he made the decision to visit on his own," Jarvis said. "He will arrive in approximately forty-five seconds."

"Oh. All right," Steve said, glancing at Bucky. "What would you like to do? It's up to you. You can take a bath or a nap or read or something, I'll tell him you're sleeping. Settling in."

Bucky smiled, a tiny, fleeting expression. "A nap?"

"Sure, if that's what you want. Take whatever bed you'd like." Steve frowns slightly, thinking about the fact that Bucky had basically brought nothing with him. He _had_ some things, but they were coming in a box via courier, along with some files and a handful of accoutrements intended to help continue the charade that Bucky was just a dog.  "Help yourself to something to sleep in from my room, too, if you need to."

Nodding silently, Bucky padded out of the bathroom. Steve made his way out to the entry area of his apartment, turning over possible questions and potential explanations.

A few moments later, there was a sharp rapping on the door followed immediately by several overlapping chimes from the doorbell. Steve rolled his eyes at Tony's insistence and opened the door in time to nearly catch knuckles on his chin.

"Whoops, hi," Tony said, lowering his hand so that he didn't knock on Steve's face. "So, um. Can I come in?"

"Sure, Tony," Steve said, stepping aside to let him pass.

"Great. Thanks." Tony looked around avidly as he moved into the apartment proper. "Where's Fido?"

"Faolán's getting some rest," Steve said. "We walked back from Tribeca."

"You walked—Why didn't you call for a car? Or—Never mind." Tony shook his head, crossed his arms, and turned toward the windows. "This is a great view."

"I enjoy it," Steve said, sincerely; the tone was half honest, half teasing.

"Yeah, good." Tony fidgeted, falling silent.

After a few moments, Steve said, "Everything okay?"

"You're taking time off," Tony blurted, still not looking at Steve. " _You_."

"Yes," Steve said.

"Why?"

"I've been thinking about it for a little while," Steve said, moving over to drop into an armchair he'd positioned so he could sit and watch the skyline. "In DC, before everything...fell apart, I was talking to Sam. I'd been..." He ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a breath. "I was _tired,_ even before the Project Insight mess. Sam asked me, he asked me what makes me happy, and I couldn't answer him. It's not a difficult question, Tony, and I _still_ don't know."

"Oh," Tony said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Steve continued.

"With SHIELD down, I don't have an actual job. I _do_ have time. And if there's an emergency, of course I'll help."

Tony nodded at that, quiet for a few moments longer. "Yeah, of course. Great," he said, at last.

"You know... It's a good question," Steve said, looking up at him. "What makes _you_ happy, Tony?"

"Pepper," Tony said, a funny look crossing his face as his answer popped out of his mouth. "And... making things. Making things better."

Steve smiled at him. "Especially if you get to use your own hands to do it."

"Yeah! There's nothing like getting your hands dirty," Tony said, turning to smile back at Steve. "I love my tech, I can't live without it, but putting things together myself is just...satisfying." His smile faded into a somewhat more pensive expression. "Yeah, you need to be able to answer that question a lot faster. For yourself, not for me or anybody else."

"I hope to," Steve said, softly.

"And, uh..." Tony abruptly turned and headed back toward the door, his hands in his back pockets. "Keep me updated on how you and Lassie do. If he's, y'know, any help at all."

"Sure, Tony." Steve got up and followed him to more or less see him out. "Thanks for coming by."


	7. Beginning of Summer 1945

_Not long after Bucky began reaching the edges of The Other Place, the guards pulled him out of his cell and took him to meet a new face._

_"I am Lukin," the man said, his English touched with a distinct Russian accent. He wore a military uniform with a few medals on the left breast; his bearing and haircut added to his martial air. "And you are going to be of great help to the cause."_

_"What cause would that be?" Bucky mostly wanted to hear his suspicions confirmed._

_"Ah, the cause of the greater good. Wasn't that what you were fighting for, before you had your little…accident?" Lukin gestured at Bucky's left sleeve._

_Bucky huffed, the sound nothing close to a laugh. "That's what the propaganda sent home said. I fought to keep my own sorry ass alive, to keep my men alive. And now my Ma's got a fuckin' gold star an' a letter tellin' her her blue-eyed boy ain't comin' home again." He bit back further words, doing his best to check his anger before he tried taking a swing at Lukin._

_"Yes. A tragedy. We know of tragedy. The siege of Leningrad, awful."_

_"Yeah," Bucky said, because a city full of people cut off from supplies and military relief through a brutal winter could produce almost nothing_ but _tragedy. "Fuckin'_ Hamlet _."_

_Lukin's brows went up. "You are familiar with Shakespeare, Sergeant?"_

_"Who ain't?" He scowled at the other man, the urge to punch the guy coming back._

_"You'd be surprised," Lukin said, then waved a hand to dismiss the subject. "That is beside the point, which is that starting today, you will no longer be allowed the luxury of lying about in your quarters—"_

_"It's a damn cell and you know it," Bucky snapped. "And what luxury? It ain't like I was gettin' so many invitations I had to turn some down 'cause of my packed social calendar."_

_Lukin stepped forward and slapped Bucky across the face, watching impassively as the man lost his balance and fell to the floor. "The next time you interrupt me, I will break your nose. Now. From today, you will begin learning to fight again. You will do it because you are, ultimately, a survivor."_

_"James, this is… This is dangerous," the Dog said._

_"I know," Bucky said to the both of them, looking up at Lukin from the crouch he'd pushed himself into. "And if I choose not to?"_

_"Then we start the second phase far earlier than I would like to start it," Lukin said, mildly. "Get up."_

_"Is the second phase killing me? Because I'm not afraid to die." It wasn't entirely true, but Lukin didn't need to know that. Bucky was mostly afraid of seeing Steve on the other side, of knowing that he hadn't been there to keep him safe when it mattered the most.._

_"No, killing you is the absolute last resort. There are many, many things we can try before we must wash our hands of you entirely." Lukin cocked his head and shrugged slightly. "Come now, Sergeant, please do get up. We have much to do today and the morning's already half over."_

_"Would you really choose death?" The Dog's voice is curious rather than concerned._

_Bucky got to his feet, only a little less gracefully than he had before he'd lost his arm, keeping his response to the Dog internal. "If I had to, yeah. Why would Steve look for me in Russia? Commies ain't Nazis, so…"_

_"Hm." The Dog growled softly. "You made me a promise, James Buchanan Barnes."_

_"Yeah," Bucky said, eyeing Lukin as he prodded his face. To the man, he said, "And what are we doing today?"_

_"Hand-to-hand training," Lukin said, smiling as it seemed that Bucky was giving in. "Come along."_

 

_The training was unrelenting, unforgiving, but not overtly cruel. There were several instructors who rotated through, one of whom was a woman—she reminded Bucky of Peggy, with her no-nonsense approach to her task and her complete lack of interest in compromising simply on the basis of her sex; she lacked Peggy's warmth, lacked her dry humor that could startle a bright honest laugh out of Steve. God, he wished Steve had been able to follow her out of the war, wished they could have been happy and—_

_When his vision cleared, Bucky found himself prone on the floor at her feet._

_"Stop gathering wool. You are lucky Lukin wants you to live, I could have killed you easily," she snapped. "Up. Again."_

_Bucky grumbled into the mat and pushed himself up onto hand and knees, then sat back on his heels for a moment. They'd started feeding him a little better—butter and sour cream on his potatoes, fresh bread, a slice of ham or beef or something gamey, maybe elk or deer at dinner—but he was still hungry all the time. The exertion and injury didn't help, either._

_On his feet once more, he settled into a fighting stance that mirrored that of the woman training him and prepared for the next strike._

_After the day was done, he was taken to a room where he was given ten minutes in an ice bath, followed by a highly impersonal and decidedly rough massage given by what Bucky thought of as an incongruously attractive young woman. Then it was time for dinner, during which he occasionally fell asleep, and then bed._

_Mornings began with another brisk rub-down, a run, a scalding shower, then breakfast and the fighting would begin all over again._


	8. Four

Steve waited a few minutes to make sure that Tony wasn't coming back before he went looking for Bucky, moving quietly in case he'd decided on a nap. He found Bucky in his own bed, or at least he assumed it was Bucky—the usually-neat bedding was tucked up around a vaguely humanoid form on the side of the mattress farthest from the door. He opted to return to the living room, leaving the door open a little so that they could hear one another, and sat down.

Two seconds after he'd settled on the couch, Jarvis said quietly, "A courier has just arrived with a box for you, Captain."

Of course. "Thank you, Jarvis. I'll be down immediately to sign for it." Steve got up, found a piece of paper and jotted a quick note for Bucky, then left his apartment. When he got back a few minutes later, Bucky was still sound asleep. Given how he'd looked at D's shop, Steve wasn't surprised he needed the sleep.

The box contained mostly files, along with a couple of bowls (beautifully made of heavy silver, one engraved with what looked like rivers flowing into one another and the other with a table laid for a feast), an extra leash, a copy of the contract with the three provisions highlighted, and a flat velveteen box about three inches on a side. Steve frowned and opened that first, his throat going tight as he glimpsed the edge of a set of dogtags. Wherever they'd been for the last sixty-odd years, they'd been out of the elements—they didn't seem to have much more wear on them than they had the last time Steve had seen them.

He ran a fingertip over the letters pressed into the metal: James Buchanan Barnes. Then he closed the box and put it back, setting it and the questions it stirred up aside for the moment. The file folders were new, but there was a hint of mustiness hanging around them, a whiff of carbons and mimeograph fluid and even the faintest brush of mouse: whatever was inside the sturdy cardstock had been stored away for a long time. After a few moments of contemplation, Steve checked for anything else that he might need from the box, found nothing, then took the whole thing into the strong room that Tony had built into each of the Avengers's apartments. He knew that Natasha and Clint used theirs for weapon storage; Steve hadn't needed it for anything until now. If Bucky wanted to talk about what had happened to him during the time HYDRA had him, Steve would listen, but he didn't think it was his place to bring it up. It wasn't as if he didn't have questions, it was just that he was more curious about Bucky's transformations than anything else.

 

  

Bucky woke a few hours later, warm and disoriented. He was encased in something both luxuriantly soft and absolutely soaked in Steve's scent; opening his eyes only increased his confusion. The bed had to be Steve's, as was the comforter and the room, but the materials of all three items were too new, too well-maintained. "Where'm I?"

"You are safe," the Dog said, sounding reassuringly sleepy.

"'Kay. Where?"

"Dunno."

"Sound sorry," Bucky mumbled, faintly amused. He struggled out of the blanket that he'd apparently rolled himself up in, yawning and stretching afterward. The memories of D and the shop and Steve's arrival came back to him, along with the walk through the city and the meeting with Tony. Then Tony had come up to see Steve and Bucky had decided on a nap... "We're at Steve's."

"Your Steve?"

"Yes. We are safe." He didn't have definitive proof of that, but there was a marrow-deep certainty that Steve meant safety. Bucky stretched one last time, then got up and crept out toward the more public areas of the apartment. He could hear voices, but none of them were Steve's; perhaps it was the radio or television?

Steve looked up from the tablet he held at the sound of footsteps in the hall, smiling as he caught sight of Bucky; he tapped the screen to pause the video. "Hey. Did you have a good nap?"

"Hi." Bucky nodded, looking around the area. "No one's here?"

"Hm? Oh, no, I was watching a documentary about a man named Harvey Milk. Are you hungry? Do you want...anything?" Steve set his tablet aside and stood up, doing his best to move slowly and smoothly.

The impulse to shake his head, to deny his body's needs, rose up and strangled Bucky's response for a long five seconds. Then Steve's head tilted and Bucky remembered that he was free, that he'd escaped, that even if HYDRA wasn't gone completely they weren't in the apartment. "Yes." Something scraped and twanged in the depths of his brain and he added, "Please."

Steve smiled again and gestured toward the kitchen. "Let's see what there is to eat."

 

 

When they'd finished eating—the bowls that had come out of the box of Bucky's things had changed into an equally-beautiful cup and plate, respectively, when Bucky touched them—Bucky and Steve settled on the sofa.

"May I— _Would_ you, uh, tell me? About the... About turning into a dog?" Steve said. "If you're ready. I can wait, you don't _have_ to tell me anything about... anything." He held back the sigh that wanted to escape.

Talking about the Dog was easier than talking about anything else, so Bucky nodded. "I don't... They...did things. To my head. To make me forget things." He rubbed at his left eyebrow, then touched his right cheekbone. "I've been remembering...pieces. Not always in the right order. But the Dog, it's... He makes it harder to forget him, so I remember—remembered—him first."

Steve just nods and makes what he hopes is an encouraging sound instead of retrieving the files from the strong room in order to start looking for the nearest HYDRA nest. "So the dog...wasn't something HYDRA did."

"No, the Dog found me—You remember the stories, right? Someone told us stories."

"My ma," Steve said, then swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. "Ma, she told us stories about all the, the Fair Folk. The Other Crowd."

A smile flickered at the corners of Bucky's mouth. "I've mostly forgotten the others, but the _madra dubh—_ "

"The Black Dog—" Steve recalled the description Bucky had given at the shop, outlining his duties. "But they're omens of death."

"Most of the time," Bucky said, shifting so that he was more comfortably wedged in the corner of the sofa, then swung his legs up to rest his feet flat on the cushion, knees poking up between the two of them. "There are some that guard and guide travelers, keep them safe from things that might catch them in the dark. One of them found me after... I fell, but I don't..." He frowned, rubbing at his left eyebrow again. "How did I fall?"

"I—" Steve swallowed again and again, then cleared his throat and tried to pretend he was merely giving a mission report. "You and I and Gabe Jones were on a train. We were to apprehend a high-ranking member of HYDRA and take possession of whatever they were transporting. There was... There was an enemy combatant wearing a... It was a large wearable...cannon, I guess is the best way to describe it. You and I were in a car with him and he fired. I pushed you down, out of the line of fire, deflected the shot with my shield and it knocked me down, knocked the shield out of my hand, and put a hole in the side of the car. I fell over to the side that was still whole. My shield was beside you, in the middle of the car, and when... When the cannon fired again, you'd picked up my shield...

"The blow to the shield, it... It... That time, it threw you out of the car. Along the side that had been blown out. You caught a bar, some kind of handle or tie-down point. I tried to reach you, I _tried_ , I was..." Steve put his head down into his hands and took several slow deep breaths. "Six foot two and I was still too damn short, I couldn't fucking _reach_ you, Buck. You tried reaching back and the bar gave way." He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, like it would make the crystal-clear film in his head _stop_ playing. "I'm sorry. 'M so fucking sorry, Bucky."

Bucky was silent for a few moments, digesting the story, trying to match it up with what memories he had. "If the bar broke... If it broke because it was damaged, then... It's no one's fault?"

"Doesn't mean I'm not sorry," Steve said, but there was the slightest easing of the guilt he carried. He didn't believe he'd earned forgiveness, not yet, but he could see the potential for it. He turned his head so he could see Bucky's shins. "Anyway, that's how you fell."

"Thank you," Bucky said. "I was dying. I didn't know it, not really, because it just felt like waking up after I'd been out late. I did that, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you'd go out."

"I thought I was... at home. With the sofa with the marks on the legs, and the...curtains. There was something about the curtains..." Bucky scowled at his knees, not really seeing them, as he tried to remember.

"Your ma and Becca made them," Steve said, after a few seconds had gone by and all that had happened was the expression of frustration on Bucky's face getting sharper. "It's okay if you don't remember," he added, as gently as he could. He didn't want Bucky to think that he was dismissive of the other man's memory issues.

"Maybe that's it." Bucky shook his head a little. "I remember your ma's chifferobe," he said. "I'll come back to that. So I thought I was there, and I thought you'd brought a dog inside. I dunno _why_ I thought so. But the dog talked to me, and told me that I was dying—I said _of course_ I was, he was a Black dog, so—and he said..." Sitting up, Bucky made himself look Steve in the face. "He _knew,_ Steve, he knew your ma'd told us, an' that I kept you from dyin', an' then... Heh. Then he said I could be one, if I didn't wanna die. Said I'd be his apprentice. 'Cause of the way I looked after _you_."

Steve was distracted from his first reflexive reaction of denial by the sound of Bucky's words, Brooklyn-sloppy and missed so damn much that it hit him like a ton of bricks. When he thought he could make actual words that meant things, he said, "And you said yes."

"He said that I might be able to look after you again," Bucky said, quietly, "so of course I said yes."

"So that's how you can change into a dog," Steve said.

"Yes. HYDRA—"

"You don't have to tell me," Steve said, holding his hands up, palms out. "If you want to, _need_ to, you can, but I won't make you."

"Thank you," Bucky said. "It took me a while to learn how to do...everything. So HYDRA didn't know about it. For...years. And the Dog, he helped me keep my head, so I didn't... I didn't end up like somebody who shoulda been in Bellevue, or in that place in Flatbush."

"I..." Steve swallowed, turning toward Bucky, half-reaching for him. "Can I, would it be all right? To, to hug you?"

It took Bucky a moment process the request, simply because it'd been so long since anyone had bothered asking him for his permission. He had a vague memory of arms around him, arms slung around shoulders, and nodded. "Yes." The embrace is awkward, the two of them sitting on the sofa as they are, more side-by-side than facing one another.

"God, I've missed you," Steve mumbled into Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky made a soft sound of acknowledgement at that, then let himself slowly relax into the heat and solid feeling of Steve leaning against him.

After a few more seconds and a bit of a squeeze, Steve let Bucky go and sat up.

The two of them looked at one another for a bit before Bucky said, "What... What happens now?"

"I, uh..." Steve gave Bucky a slightly rueful smile, his shoulders rising in embarrassment. "Well, I didn't really expect to find you again in a pet shop, so... All of my previous tactical plans are kind of pointless." His sheepishness faded quickly into sincerity. "Most of the big points are still the same, though. I'm taking the time off. I want to... I want to show you everything you've missed, and I want to get you help if you need it—"

"What kind of help?" Bucky frowned, shifting away from Steve. "I know I sound like maybe I should be in Bellevue—"

"No, Buck, that's not what—" Steve shook his head. "People aren't sent away for battle fatigue—it's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, now—anymore, it's not just ignored. It doesn't get _enough_ attention, but it's not like it was when our fathers came home from the war. It's not even like it was when our friends came home. And I wouldn't— _couldn't—_ send you away anyhow." The very thought has Steve feeling the panic from the shop once more, with the same urge to gather Bucky up and flee.

"So what do you mean?" Bucky had pulled back, folding himself up with his feet on the cushion and his back against the arm of the sofa again.

"When I first woke up, SHIELD found me a, a therapist. It..." Steve's expression was wry. "I didn't try very hard to work with him, and after a few sessions, I quit going. After talking to Sam, though—Sam Wilson, Falcon, the man who was with me on the helicarriers—"

"I broke his wing and shoved him over the edge," Bucky said, softly, hunching up tighter.

"He was fine," Steve said, hoping he sounded more reassuring than flippant or dismissive. "He wasn't _happy_ about it, but he had a parachute and landed safely."

"Oh." It was good news, but it didn't really help the gnawing feeling of shame.

"Sam suggested I try again, with a different therapist," Steve said, more to his knees than to Bucky. "Since, um, since...hitting things, hitting Nazis, isn't really the best way to deal with...anything, really. And I can't get drunk, not that drinking is a good way to deal with things, either."

Bucky frowned, the words making sense but not really imparting much information. "But _what_ is it?"

"From what Sam said, it's coping strategies," Steve said with a shrug. "Things to do when you're trying to figure out how to stop being a soldier now that you're back from whatever war you've been in. It's something for you to think about. You don't have to. There are a lot of resources online, too."

"Stop being a soldier," Bucky said, slowly. For the first time in a long time, he's able to actually _voice_ a want, actually _has_ a voice, one that can make sounds that human beings can understand. "I... I want that. I want to stop fighting."

"You can," Steve said, firmly, "God, Buck, of course you can."

"Then... Then that's what I'm going to do." Bucky kept his gaze on his knees, but he wasn't really seeing them. "And... And then I want to see what else I can do."


	9. Late Summer 1945

_Once his hand-to-hand skills had improved to the point that he was winning or holding his own more than he was losing, Bucky's life changed again. He was dragged out of his cell at odd hours for more combat training; some mornings he would be given a gun and told to field-strip and reassemble it. When he tried to point out that he only had one damn hand, he would be cuffed on the ear and told to stop whining. They made him do it perfectly a dozen times before they let him eat; it increased to two dozen, fifty, a hundred._

_Other mornings it was knife skills, sometimes for the kitchen and sometimes for combat. Afternoons were for cleaning and lubricating guns and sharpening knives, followed by instruction the Russian language. Other than the fact that he never knew when he'd be yanked from his cell and made to perform, Bucky was horrified to find himself_ enjoying _it. It was a challenge, it was far more stimulating than sitting or lying around all day, it gave him the chance to collect information about the facility and the people running it._

_The random night-time interruptions slid slowly into outright sleep deprivation, but he was distracted enough that he didn't realize it until it was too late—he was exhausted enough that he started experiencing auditory hallucinations. Fortunately, he had an ally in the Dog._

_"It's not him. Your mind is…behaving strangely, and I believe it is causing you to hear—"_

_"It's_ Steve _, dammit, I'd know that voice anywhere—"_

_"It is_ not _. Please lie down and get some sleep or we will suffer greatly tomorrow."_

_Bucky huffed and threw himself onto the thin pile of bedding they'd left him with (his cot had disappeared while he was out trying to avoid being stabbed by Lieutenant Pasternak) and closed his eyes. Sleep claimed him with a vengeance, but it was once again interrupted by the aforementioned Lieutenant._

_The reasonable food had been reduced to half or one-third of what he'd gotten until then, leaving him even more irritable and off-balance. The guards and the instructors didn't really care, though he had overheard Miss Mikhailovna complaining to Lukin that the soldier—Bucky—wouldn't learn the language as well as Lukin wanted if Bucky didn't get more food and more rest. Miss Mikhailovna's concerns were dismissed._

_The Dog was less forgiving. "You must learn this, James. If you can transform into the shape of a Dog, we have a better chance at escaping. If they continue to rouse you hourly, to keep you underfed, we shall both die."_

_"Yeah, well, you fuckin' make some noise," Bucky snapped, The Other Place fading away. "Not like I can convince them to leave me the hell alone."_

_"They cannot hear me," the Dog said, "and you are not yet strong enough for me to use as either vessel or conduit for my own manifestation. All we have is you and the element of surprise."_

_"You can do that?"_

_"Well…"_

_Bucky raised his eyebrows at the hesitation in the Dog's voice. "You've never actually done it, have you."_

_"No. But I believe I can, if I must."_

_"God, I got so spoiled, not havin' to put up with another 90-day wonder," Bucky muttered. He rubbed his hands over his face, then took a deep breath and blew it out again, sharply. "Don't worry about it. I'll keep trying, but if they don't give me some breathing room to catch up on my sleep I'm gonna end up fallin' on my face."_

_"Please, try again."_

_"Okay," Bucky said, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He closed his eyes and listened hard for The Other Place._


	10. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the machine-translated German. From my limited experience with the language, it looks pretty good, but I know that doesn't mean it's actually accurate. Translation/intended meaning at the end of the chapter.

Bucky didn't want to sleep in the bed that barely smelled like anything after his nap in Steve's bed. He hadn't expected to sleep so easily, in a new place; he hadn't expected the scent of the man to be comforting. His memories were still a muddled mess of blood and fire and screaming, with honey-sweet flashes of peace and sunlight, but there was something deep inside him that insisted that Steve was trustworthy. After hovering indecisively in the hallway for a few moments, Bucky shifted into Faolán's shape, padded into Steve's room, and hopped up onto the foot of the bed.

"Hey," Steve said, welcoming, smiling over the edge of the book he was reading. The smile faded as Bucky made a circle near his feet. "Uh..."

He paused, looking at Steve.

"I... You can sleep in here, with me, that's fine!" Steve leaned the book against his chest so he can gesture at the room at large. "Just... Maybe up here?" He pats the quilt near his hip. "So I don't kick you by accident, and..."

Cocking his head, Bucky sat down while he waited for Steve to finish his thought.

Steve took a deep breath. "It feels...strange. To have you at my feet." He made a short sweeping movement with his hand, indicating the rest of the bed. "There's plenty of room, so you can sleep wherever. Just... Not down there?"

It made sense—Steve was not HYDRA, the idea of _being_ like HYDRA was likely distasteful to him if his previous reactions were anything to go by—so Bucky moved up until he was more or less in the middle of the free side of the bed. He curled up in a comfortable curve, settled his head on his paws, and closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come immediately, whether because of the nap earlier or lingering distrust of his circumstances he wasn't sure. The soft, even sounds of Steve's heart and breath and the gentle turning of pages soon settled him and he drifted into a half-dreaming doze.

 

 

Late Autumn 1956

A Hotel Between The Harbor and The Railway Station

Bremerhaven, West Germany

 

His instructions were simple: meet the informant at the hotel, go out for coffee, make the informant disappear. The disguise they'd given him—a boiler suit and a broom—was perfect for making eyes slide away, for his very presence to drop out of minds once he was out of sight. There was only so much he could do in the lobby, however, and as soon as he'd been there too long he would be noticed for being out of place.

The Soldier, as they often referred to him, ended up doing actual chores to help the hotel staff while he waited for his target. By the time the afternoon was beginning to shade into evening, he was fairly certain that the informant had decided it wasn't worth the risk. As he was standing near the desk, trying to decide what to do (what his superiors would want him to do), the door opened and the sound of an unhappy voice filled the air.

A tiny woman, barely five feet tall if she was an inch, held a chubby child on her hip with one hand and carried a heavy suitcase in the other. The baby was fussing, face red and wet with tears, and the pair of them looked exhausted. The woman's dark hair was pinned up, out of her face; a wedding set glinted on her left hand. When they got to the desk, the woman gave her name and asked for a room in halting German, her accent instantly recognizable as American. It tugged at something inside The Soldier, as did the misery on the baby's face.

If asked, he wouldn't know how to explain what he did next. The Soldier stepped forward, catching the attention of everyone, and held his arms out to the little girl.

"Oh," the woman said, her brown eyes taking him in. She hesitated for just a moment, just long enough for the child to whimper and stretch out her own arms. "All right. Thank you. _Danke schöne._ " And she held the baby out.

" _Bitte,_ " he said, taking the girl and holding her close to his chest. He bounced her a little, humming a fragment of melody, then murmured, " _Da gehen wir, das ist besser. Sie brauchten nur eine kleine Abwechslung. Ist dein Papa ein Soldat? Mein Papa war. Wo denkst du ist Frederik? Er sollte jetzt schon hier sein._ "

Big grey-blue eyes stared up at him as he spoke, then began to drift closed; her fussing settled into barely-audible snuffling, then faded into soft, even breathing.

Warm satisfaction settled over The Soldier as he soothed the girl into a doze, something about the entire scenario striking him as familiar.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. _"You said you have sisters."_

The voice startled The Soldier, but he kept his twitch small. A quick, casual glance around the lobby proved that there wasn't anyone nearby that could sound the way the voice did.

_"You're not hearing things, you've just forgotten me. They make you forget."_

Under cover of talking to the babe in his arms, The Soldier mumbled, "Who are you?"

_"I am_ madra dubh, _a Black Dog, and you are James Buchanan Barnes. My apprentice."_

"Huh," The Soldier—James?—said, adjusting his hold on the girl a little bit. "Didn't know that was possible."

_"You and I do many impossible things."_

The woman finished up at the desk, thanking the clerk with deep sincerity as she put her key in her pocket. She turned to the young man holding her child and smiled at the two of them, the exhaustion leaving her face for just a moment and making her radiant.

" _Okay, zurück zu deiner Mama. Sei ein gutes Mädchen,_ " he said, handing her back to the woman.

" _Danke schöne,_ " she said, again, settling the girl on her hip once more.

" _Bitte, es ist wirklich nichts._ " He returned her smile, then nodded toward her suitcase. " _Möchten Sie dabei helfen?_ "

The clerk frowned at The Soldier and said, " _Zurück an die Arbeit. Sie werden nicht dafür bezahlt, die Gäste zu plaudern._ "

There was a snort at the back of The Soldier's mind at that. _"You don't actually work for him, and no one pays you a damn thing either way."_

The Soldier held up his hands and took a step back. " _Ja, ja, ich gehe._ " An actual hotel employee arrived then, taking the woman's suitcase and getting the room number from the clerk. " _Auf Wiedersehen,_ " he called.

" _Ja, Auf Wiedersehen, danke,_ " she said, with one last grateful glance. Then she was turning away, following the man with her luggage. (Later, when the woman and her daughter met up with her husband, she would tell him about the moment of kindness in the lobby; years later, when the girl had sisters and was old enough to be curious, she would learn the story too; decades after, the story would be told to the girl's own children.)

The Soldier went down to the basement, removed the boiler suit and dressed in shabby workman's clothing, then let himself out into the alley behind the building. He had to report Frederik's failure to meet him, needed to receive his next orders...

_"We could run. Go to the Americans—there are so many of them—the woman might help us—"_

"I don't even know if you're real," he muttered to himself, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets.

_"You know what a Black Dog is. How would you know unless you'd been told the stories? You learned them from your Steve and his ma."_

"Still doesn't make you real," The Soldier said, but his protest was half-hearted at best. Steve... The name was so familiar, in the same way that being handed the little girl to calm had been familiar. He took a roundabout way back to the rendezvous point, partly because it was standard protocol and partly so he could try to dredge up anything else related to Steve and Black Dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you so much."   
> "You're welcome." (To the baby): "There we go, that's better. You just needed a little change of scenery. Is your papa a soldier? My papa was. Where do you think Frederik is? He's supposed to/should be here by now."
> 
> "Okay, back to your mama. Be a good girl."   
> "Thank you so much."  
> "You're welcome, it's nothing. Do you need help with that?" 
> 
> "Get back to work. You're not paid to stand around and chat with guests."   
> "Yes, yes, I'm going." (To the lady): "Goodbye."
> 
> "Yes, goodbye, thank you."


	11. Autumn 1945

_The Other Place looked like the apartment he and Steve had shared just before he'd shipped out for the western front, right down to the sun-faded curtains in the windows and the mouse-teeth marks on the legs of the sofa. Bucky half-hated seeing the place, the memories it stirred up feeling like more of a cruelty than what Lukin demanded of him. He was currently settled into the corner of his cell, the thin blanket they allowed him to have wadded up between the back of his head and the concrete wall, conversing quietly with the Dog. "What do you think?"_

_"I'm quite pleased," the Dog said. "You're reaching The Other Place quickly enough that you can start trying to change. In your Place, is there a place to store things?"_

_"Oh? Yes, we've got Stevie's Ma's chifferobe." He could see the piece of furniture clearly—a wedding gift from Joseph Rogers' parents to the happy couple—a massive thing in oak with cherry veneer. The uppermost curve of the top edge nearly touched the ceiling, and when the doors were opened they stood wider than even Bucky's reach when he'd attained his full height. The drawers on the left were generous; the space for hanging up things easily held their jackets and nice shirts. There was a good-sized mirror in the inside of the left-hand door; there were hooks for ties and belts on the inside of the right._

_"Good. Try opening the shiffa...?"_

_"Chifferobe," Bucky said._

_"Chifferobe, yes, try opening it."_

_"Right." Bucky closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Wait, you said I wouldn't be able to touch anything."_

_"I did, and you couldn't, not when you first started visiting your Place. You're strong enough now that you should be able to do so."_

_"All right," Bucky said, and closed his eyes again. The soft sounds of a Brooklyn summer filled his ears, followed by the sensation of the muffling heat of the flat. He was surprised to see the chifferobe in question standing in the front room, since it had been in the bedroom since he, his father, and their neighbor Mr. Halloran had wrestled the damned thing into place. Thank God it came apart into separate sections._

_Bucky reached out and tried to catch hold of the metal handle of the left-hand door and failed. He wasn't sure if it was his fingers going through the handle, or if the handle was passing through his fingers—either way, he couldn't touch it. As with finding The Other Place, he just took a moment and tried again, and again, and again._

_After a good two dozen tries, Bucky returned to the mortal plane. "Haven't managed it, yet," he said, then stretched and yawned. He didn't feel discouraged in the least, but he was tired._

_"Are you giving up?" The Dog's voice was mildly curious._

_"Just need some sleep before I try again," Bucky said, wriggling into a horizontal position before wrangling his blanket over himself. "_ Oíche mhaith. _"_

_"Good night."_


	12. Six

"Mornin', Cap," Clint said, as he came into the common area. "Saw the email. You doing okay?"

"I'm fine," Steve said, then tilted his head and corrected himself with, "mostly fine. Thought I'd take advantage of the chance to slow down, catch my breath, in order to figure out what to do with myself in this century." He looked down, then back up at Clint. "And I have someone I'd like you to meet."

"Good plan," Clint said, nodding as he found a clean mug. He gave Steve a surprised look for his last statement. "You do? Is _that_ what this is all about?"

Steve frowned at the question, then shrugged it off and came around the end of the island, Faolán following at heel in his vest. "This is Faolán. Faolán, Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye."

Faolán wagged his tail politely in greeting, sniffing at Clint's outstretched hand; he recognized the scent of him from traces left in elevators and common areas.

"Hey, big guy," Clint said, nodding at the dog. "Nice to meet you." Turning to Steve, he said, "You could always bring him by to play with Lucky, when you guys need a break."

"I... Thanks," Steve said, calling on all of his acting skills to keep his face straight. "I appreciate the offer."

"Sure." Clint took a long moment to give Steve an appraising look, then tilted his head a little. "You know, I think this is gonna be good for you. We joke, y'know, but you really haven't had much time to just... hang out and get to know the world, have you?"

"No, I haven't," Steve said, with a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "I'm going to try my best to do some of that, too."

"Good," Clint said, smiling at him. "You ever want company, you just let us know."

"Thanks."

 

 

"Widow's back," Tony said, gesturing in the general direction of Natasha's apartment. "If you wanted to introduce Air Bud to her."

"Air—" Steve shook his head. "Never mind. If she just got back, I'm not going to bother her—"

"Bother her who?" Natasha said as she crossed the common room toward them. "And who is this?"

"You," Steve said, then held his hand out toward Faolán. "This is Faolán. Faolán, Natasha Romanova."

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at the dog, who remained seated at Steve's side and regarded her calmly. "Faolán," she said, slowly, looking him over. "Where did he come from?"

"I, uh, I thought you and Sam had set it up, with..." Steve couldn't quite bring himself to say _D_ , because it sounded strange without a surname. "With the shop."

"Sam and me?" Natasha raised a brow but didn't stop looking at Faolán. "No. I'm flattered you think enough of me to assume I was behind it, though."

"Shop?" Tony said, looking up from his phone to see what the other three were doing.

"I see," Steve said, pursing his lips for a moment. If it hadn't been Sam and Natasha's doing, then... Well, if Bucky had remembered him, he could have told D, and from there it wasn't very hard to find more than anyone ever wanted to know about him. Getting hold of his personal phone number, on the other hand, was much less likely. To Tony, he said, "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

Faolán didn't like the way Romanova was staring at him. It wasn't an obvious sort of stare, the kind he got from children and the occasional adult; the subtle nature was more like someone peeling back layers of—He stood abruptly and shook himself all over, as if he could throw off the memories of "tests" conducted on him like water. He sat down again, leaning hard into Steve's leg. They'd found that the comfort went both ways, though Bucky seemed to need less of it when he looked like Faolán.

Steve dropped to one knee and put his arm around Faolán's shoulders, pulling him close. They'd discussed it after Bucky had hesitantly asked for more contact, at least when he looked like a dog; Steve was fairly sure that both of them could be aptly described as 'touch-starved' no matter what form either of them took. It was early days, yet, and Steve wasn't about to push for anything more than what Bucky wanted.

"Does it really help?" Tony said, watching the man embrace the dog.

"Yeah, actually," Steve said, keeping his focus on Faolán because it was easier than looking at either Tony or Natasha. "I, uh, had a nightmare the night before last. Faolán woke me up, and it was... It was good. To have him there. Helped, uh, helped ground me. Reminded me of where I was a lot faster."

"Good," Natasha said, firmly. She looked Faolán in the eye and nodded once before she turned and headed for the kitchen.

 

           

It was Bruce who surprised them the most, two weeks into Steve's sabbatical. Steve and Faolán had gone to see Tony in one of the workshops—something about an 'automatic dog walker', which Steve had no intention of using—and Tony had taken the opportunity to insist they introduce Faolán to the other scientist.

"It's... nice to meet you," Bruce said, to Faolán; his brows pinched together and the corners of his mouth turned down as he looked from the dog to Steve and back again. After a moment, he said, "Ah, Steve? Could I have a word with you, privately?"

"Okay?" Steve shrugged, looked over his shoulder at Tony who was whistling between his teeth and tinkering with something, visitors completely forgotten, then made to follow Bruce toward the other man's office.

"Mm, sorry, I meant just you." Bruce grimaced, ducked his head, and addressed Faolán. "I'm sorry, it's just for a moment, I promise I mean him no harm."

Faolán blinked at him and cocked his head, mimicking the dogs he and Steve had seen in the videos with which Clint had inundated Steve's phone.

"I'm—you're asking me to leave Faolán out here?" Steve said, frowning himself.

"Yes. Just for a few moments. It's... It's important." Bruce took his glasses off and polished them with his shirt-tail. "Please."

"All right," Steve said, glancing down at Faolán. "I'll be back in a minute."

Bruce closed the door behind them and took a deep breath. "Steve, I'm going to say something, now, and it's going to sound..." He huffed in amusement, shaking his head. "Well, we've met gods and aliens and I am, to use Tony's words, a giant green rage monster. But this is still going to sound...strange. Steve," his voice is urgent, his gaze direct as he catches and holds Steve's eyes. "Steve, Faolán, he's not a _dog._ "

"What do you mean, he's not a dog?" Steve did his best to keep his voice level, tone neutral; he feared giving away the secret more than he feared any appearance of the Other Guy.

"I mean..." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Um. I've... I've always had...a talent. Before the whole...changing fiasco. I've always seen things... a little differently? Like, things that aren't... It wasn't until later, after I saw the footage of Loki in the helicarrier—I could see that he was projecting an illusion when Thor was talking to him."

"Huh," was pretty much all Steve could come up with in terms of a reply. "And..."

"And I can see that your dog's not... I don't know what he _is,_ exactly, but he's _powerful_. And in disguise." Bruce shifted. "You're clearly doing well with him, but you might want to think about taking him back—"

"No," Steve snapped, then winced. "Sorry. But no. I can't... Doctor Banner, Bruce—" Steve ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, then said, "I appreciate your concern. I can't— _won't—_ take him back. I know he's not a dog, not the kind of dog everyone else thinks he is. I'm not in any danger, though. Not from him."

"You do?" Bruce half-turned to look back out into the workshop, noting that Faolán was sitting exactly where Steve had left him. Looking Steve in the eye once more, he said, "You aren't? You're sure about that?"

"Yes," Steve said, firmly. "Absolutely sure. It's... It's not entirely my story to tell, so I can't give you all the details, but I can tell you that. Faolán isn't dangerous to anyone in the tower unless they make themselves a clear threat to me."

"I see," Bruce said, turning the assertions over for a few moments before he finally nodded. "All right."


	13. Late Autumn 1945

_The smooth metal of the handle is cool against his fingers. Bucky grins and pulls, expecting the door of the chifferobe to swing open. It doesn't, the handle slipping through his fingers. "Damn," he said, then let go of The Other Place and blinked at the ceiling of his cell. "Almost had it."_

_"You've been practicing for a week," the Dog said, sounding both pleased and surprised._

_"It helps that they've let me get some damn sleep." Bucky felt a little swell of pride at having surprised the Dog._

_"True. And once you can change, perhaps we can get away from them."_

_"God, I fucking hope so," Bucky said, rubbing his face with the heel of his flesh hand. "I want..." He laughed without much actual joy. "I want so many damn things I can't pick one to start with."_

_"As you're close enough to opening the door, I'll remind you that you should find something behind it—a coat, a cloak, a sheet. It will be black and it will look too large to properly wear. All you need to do is put it around your shoulders and you will change."_

_"Right, thanks," Bucky said, thinking about a good-looking black suit coat that he might have worn out dancing, once. God,_ there _was something he'd missed: dancing. Him and Stevie and a couple of girls, all out to have a good time... As soon as he got back, as soon as he was home, he'd find Steve and—Oh. No, he wouldn't. The weird cadaverous assistant to Miss Mikhailovna that seemed to have a perpetual smile on his face had shown him the papers with their headlines, all screaming some variant of_ Captain America Vanishes In Arctic Ice! _and he had gone cold, too. He'd held a sliver of hope that Steve would pull off another miracle in the vein of Kreischberg, but the far louder, more pragmatic part of him had decided that if Steve could have found him by now he definitely would have._

_It still hurt to see it, in black and white; still numbed a corner of his soul that he'd never quite acknowledged. The Dog had pointed out that his captors had every reason to lie to Bucky and that it was entirely possible every paper had been mocked up to serve that very purpose. It was possible, but... Well. Dwelling on it only made it more difficult to move through to The Other Place, so he did his best to put it out of his mind._

_The sounds of summer, heat, the front room, chifferobe: all was as expected. Bucky reached for the door and got hold of the handle, which stayed solid against his fingers as he pulled. The door swung open, and there were the shirts he remembered, there was Steve's jacket—he put his hand out, more reflex than anything, and found the contents of the wardrobe no more substantial than smoke. "Dammit."_

_"Not there?"_

_"No, I—" Bucky blinked as he realized that he hadn't even_ looked _, distracted as he was by the sight of clothes his friend hadn't worn in at least a couple of years. "I... I just got, ha. Derailed." He snorted at himself, then shook his head, took a breath, and concentrated as he actually tried to find what he'd been sent for. Nothing materialized in the space for hanging things up, so he checked the drawers and found nothing more than their workaday shirts, underthings, and socks._

_"Hm," the Dog said, apparently unamused by the reference. "If it's not there, it sometimes helps to start over from the beginning."_

_"Thought so," Bucky said, turning away from the chifferobe. He exhaled slowly, letting go of the feeling of The Other Place and returning to the waking world. "Didn't bring us dinner while I was out, did they?"_

_"I'm afraid not."_

_"The service here is lousy, I tell you," Bucky said, then sighed and stretched. Doing his best to ignore the gnawing edge of his hunger—a constant companion since before Kreischberg, but worse after—he stepped through to The Other Place once more. Everything was the same, though when he opened the chifferobe there was the black jacket he'd imagined. It wasn't as neatly tailored or as well-fitted as he'd conjured up, but he'd been told it wouldn't be. It was warm under his hand as he pulled it from the hanger, a sleek sheen to it that reminded him of a dog's coat._

_He swung the jacket around his shoulders and made a surprised sound as The Other Place disappeared, leaving him sitting on what passed for his bed._

_"You found it," the Dog said, sounding delighted. "Well done."_

_"Thanks," Bucky said, trying to frown at the fact that he could apparently still speak clearly, then trying to frown even more when he realized that his face felt strange. "What's the matter with my face?"_

_"Nothing's wrong with your face, why?"_

_"It feels strange when I try to do anything with it."_

_"You're a dog, now," the Dog reminded him. "It's not a man's face."_

_Bucky was quiet for a few seconds. "Right," he said, when he'd fought off the wave of embarrassment. "Good for me, I've changed into a dog. How do I undo it?"_

_"The same steps, but when you get to The Other Place, simply think of removing whatever you put on. It may take a few tries before it works, like everything else."_

_"I hope not," Bucky mumbled, "I don't want anyone to know I can do this."_

_"I don't, either. It's not something that men on the whole are supposed to know."_

_He considered making a smart remark about women knowing, then pushed it aside in favor of thinking about The Other Place. He thought about coming home after a long day at work, coming in from a night out, the relief of getting his boots or shoes off, of letting his outerwear slide from his shoulders..._

_"I begin to see why men need so many oaths, profane or otherwise," the Dog said, voice somewhat fainter than it had been to date. "You_ are _a quick study."_

_"Yeah?" Bucky felt pretty smug about the praise. "I do my best." He held his hands up—they_ were _hands, not paws; he made a note to look at them when he changed again—and wiggled his fingers. "Again?"_

_"Again," the Dog said._


	14. Seven

Steve and Bucky settled easily into their new routine; up for a run in the morning followed by breakfast with whoever was around the tower, then exploring whatever part of the city appealed to them that day. They visited the Library, quietly admiring the beauty of the Reading Room and less-quietly delighting a ridiculous number of kids in the children's section.

Steve apologized to several of the librarians, afterward—they reassured him that it was fine. One of them, an older gentleman who introduced himself as Gary, told him that it was good for kids to see him with Faolán, to hear about Faolán's presence in Steve's life.

"It'll make it easier for 'em to get help if they need it, seeing that even Captain America can ask for it." He paused, a faraway look in his eyes for a moment. "I was in Vietnam. That kind of thing, you don't come back from it the same as you were. I had friends that… It's not on you, 'cause you were up in the ice, but if they could've seen you saying it's okay to take care of yourself…"

Looking down at Faolán, Steve nodded. "I have a friend with the VA. This, just now… I think I'll talk to him about doing something, something to let other people…know. It used to be… When I was a kid, a dog, going to see someone, it wasn't…"

"Yeah, it was still a lot like that when I was a kid," Gary said, his smile wry. "And it's still not _great,_ but at least it's better."

"It is."

That afternoon, Steve contacted several of the therapists that Pepper had found and vetted for him.

  

 

Bucky sat in on Steve's first few sessions with Dr. Marijeta Kolar as Faolán; when he was ready, Steve introduced him to her as James. They both found their sessions to be cathartic, draining in a good way, and so they developed a new routine of quiet evenings in on Mondays and Wednesdays, with visits to places that were either ridiculously touristy or were the center of good memories on the Tuesdays and Thursdays following.

Ripley's Believe It or Not led them down more than one Wikipedia rabbit hole; Madam Tussad's was deemed too creepy for them (especially after seeing Steve's figure, standing static and blank-eyed against a backdrop of a battlefield with the Howling Commandos in the foreground); the Museum of Modern Art, the Metropolitan Museum, and the American Museum of Natural History were perennial favorites. They discovered new favorites, too, including the Museum of the City of New York, the National Jazz Museum, the Coney Island Lighthouse, the Salt Marsh Nature Center and Marine Park.

 

 

About halfway through Steve's leave, they realized that all of it—the therapy, the increased exposure to people just going about their mundane lives, the _rest_ they were getting—was working.

Steve woke up at some bleary hour, grumbling as he shoved the sheet off and wrestled his way out of his shirt. It wasn't often that he got too warm while he slept, even with Bucky curled up in Faolán's shape, but tonight was apparently one of those nights.

"Whassa'matter?" Bucky's voice was sleepy. "Settle down."

"Too hot," Steve mumbled, though he did as he was told; tucked back against Bucky with Bucky's arm over his side, he sighed contentedly as he started to fall into sleep once more.

"G'back t'sleep."

"Bucky," Steve said, drowsiness fleeing as he touched the back of Bucky's hand where it lay over his sternum. "Buck, you're you."

"Yeah, I know—" Bucky tensed as he realized that he'd somehow returned to his human body. "I…"

"'S okay," Steve said, not even thinking about it as he curled his fingers between Bucky's. "You can stay."

Bucky was quiet for a few moments. "I dunno how it happened."

"Can't help you there," Steve said with a shrug. "You c'n stay, I don't mind." He didn't know why he suddenly needed to know that Bucky wasn't going to go sleep in the all-but-untouched guest room, he just…did.

Bucky hummed, the sound somewhat thoughtful but mostly just noise. "'Kay. 'Slike that… The winter. You were sick."

"Gonna have t'be more specific, Buck," Steve said, amused; then he immediately felt bad because it was entirely possible that Bucky _couldn't_.

"Too tired," Bucky said, giving Steve's chest a small thump with his fingers. "Y'wouldn't quiet down and sleep then, either."

"Sorry," Steve said. He brushed the pad of his thumb over the back of Bucky's. "Think I will now, though."

"Good." Bucky sighed, pressed himself as close to Steve as he could, and let himself sink back under.


	15. Various Years

_1946_

_Late Winter/Early Spring_

_"Sergeant Barnes, it's wonderful to see you again," Zola said, smiling at the man._

_Bucky recoiled, sliding off the exam table and falling into a defensive stance. "What the hell—"_

_"I do not like him," the Dog said. "He smells wrong."_

_"I am here to assist Lukin in perfecting the Union's greatest weapon." Zola gestured at the table. "Please, sit. I want to look at your arm, see how it's healed."_

_"Like hell," Bucky said, and decided to break for the door. Four guards stood on the other side of it, and they wrestled him back into the room and onto the table._

_"Come now, Sergeant, there's nothing to worry about. It's only a little examination."_

_Midsummer_

_"Your progress, Doctor?" Lukin's voice._

_"Ah, look! The initial surgery has been successful and he is already healing. When your scientists are finished with the arm, we will be able to attach it immediately." Zola replied._

_Bucky grunted, tried to move away from the voices, but his left arm hurt far too much to get very far._

_Zola tutted at Bucky. "No, you must stay still, Sergeant. You do not wish to undo my beautiful work. I would so hate to have to re-stich anything."_

_"And how soon can we start working on encouraging his loyalty?" Lukin again._

_"Oh, well, perhaps…" A thoughtful hum. "Two months, to be certain."_

_"Good."_

_Mid-Autumn_

_"Oh, Soldier, they've been horrible to you again," the kid said._

_Bucky had no idea what his rank was, though he suspected it was probably the equivalent of Private. The kid was part of a rotating cast of sympathetic faces that brought him the best food, that patched him up after a round with Lukin's thugs, that soothed him when he'd been drugged, that treated him as human. "Ngh," he said, eloquently._

_"I've bandages and good hearty soup, so let's get you sitting up, all right?"_

_"Mngh."_

_1947_

_The First Day of Spring_

_"You are The Fist Of Hydra," Zola said, gleeful._

_Bucky was mildly fascinated by the silvery limb that moved just like his former arm; one of the technicians was close enough that he could just…reach out. The part of his head that was always looking for an edge, an angle, sent his hand up and around the man's throat. The flesh and cartilage crushed easily beneath the metal fingers, the body easily flung aside. He got off the operating table, looking over the screaming, shouting chaos, searching for Zola—_

_\--he woke on another table, heavily restrained, his head and half the bones in his body aching faintly._

_"Awake, Soldier?" Lukin sounded amused._

_"F'ck you," Bucky mumbled._

_"Excellent! What's your name?"_

_"Barnes," Bucky said, stalling as a wave of dizziness distracted him._

_"I see. Well, I think we can fix that."_

_Summer_

_"What is your name?"_

_"Barnes—"_

_"Again!"_

_rubber light_ pain _heat the smell of ozone_

_"What is your name?"_

_"B-barnes—"_

_"Again!"_

_Autumn_

_"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."_

_"Who are you? Where are you?"_

_"I am a friend, and I am… I am always with you."_

_"And I'm… James?"_

_"James Buchanan Barnes."_

_The voice was nice and it knew a lot of things…_

_…Oh, God, they'd_ done something to him _. He'd forgotten!_

 

_"What is your name?"_

_"James Buchanan Barnes—"_

_—rubber—_

_"Start it."_

_light_ pain _heat the smell of ozone—_

_"What is your name?"_

_"J-james B-buchanan—"_

_"Again!"_

_1948_

_"Do you have a name?"_

_"I do not. I am designated Soldier, or the Fist of HYDRA."_

_"Very good."_

_1958_

_May Day_

_He was cornered, trapped, there was no escaping. The guards had run him down against the massive brick fence and he couldn't climb it, couldn't find purchase, and now they were carrying him bodily… A noise caught his attention and he realized the gate was opening. He did have one last thing to try, and as soon as he'd thought of it he found himself in front of a wardrobe, grabbing at a black coat and then he was falling to the grass, claws gouging deep into the grass as he shot out from between the men who'd dropped him as he'd transformed._

_The gate was open,_ open _, and he was almost there—and then he was down again, stopped by a quick-thinking guard at the gate. He was carried back to the lab, where Lukin and Zola spent a solid two weeks working him over. He eventually gave in, transformed at their command, just for a little respite._

_1959_

_"We've come up with something to curb your willful disobedience," the not-doctor said, stepping aside for the doctor._

_The doctor held up something made of curved metal plates, looking much like those of his arm. "Yes. Hold still, Soldier…"_

_The plates fit over the top of his muzzle and leather straps held it in place; as soon as the last one was buckled, a nasty prickling sensation spread outward from his face. He pawed at it, but couldn't move it; he tried to change back into a man and couldn't do that, either._

_"Excellent work," not-doctor said._


	16. Eight

_"James?"_

"Yeah?" Bucky closed the book he'd been reading in an attempt to distract himself from the strange itching under his skin. The sensation had been growing worse over the last week, but he couldn't figure out a good way to bring it up to Steve or Dr. Marijeta. Perhaps he could start with the Dog and the two of them could come up with a solution together.

_"I think it is time we went out."_

"We just got home," Bucky said, as it was Tuesday and he and Steve had spent the afternoon in Prospect Park—Steve had sketched and Bucky had experimented with taking macro photos.

The Dog huffed at him. _"Not as a human, as a Dog. Your apprenticeship is not over, as you have not had nearly enough time to practice the most vital part of being a_ madra dubh _. We will tell your Steve that we are leaving, so he will not fret."_

"Oh," Bucky said, setting his book aside as he got to his feet. The idea was exciting—he'd spent his years under HYDRA as a mostly-mindless weapon; the missions he'd been given had tended to be the anathema of his _actual_ purpose. "Yes, I'd like that. I think Steve is in the kitchen."

Steve was in the kitchen. His mouth opened to reflexively suggest Bucky wait, get more rest, before he went out then closed again as he recalled the contract he'd signed. "Yes, of course, you should go. Just… Be careful?"

"I will," Bucky said, solemnly, then stepped forward and put his arms around Steve. "Thank you."

"Uh, sure," Steve said, returning the hug after a couple of seconds. They'd been touching more, lately, primarily at night when Bucky involuntarily shifted back into his human shape; Steve did his best to let Bucky dictate when and how it happened.  It wasn't that he didn't like touching the other man, it was just… Bittersweet. A reminder of the easy camaraderie they'd had before. As always, however, he didn't blame _Bucky_ for the loss—that lay squarely at the feet of HYDRA.

 

 

After dinner, after the sun had set, Bucky stood on the balcony in his full Black Dog form with his face in the wind. He caught thousands of scents from people, from food, from the various forms of transportation hundreds of feet below. He could sense the soft pulses of life, too, all around him—in the floors immediately above and behind him he could tell that there were two people in the penthouse at the top—probably Tony and Pepper—two on a floor between the one he shared with Steve—probably Natasha and Clint. Steve was behind him, a shimmering pole star that would lead him home.

_"Ready?"_ The Dog's voice was eager.

"Yes," Bucky said, feeling his smile throughout his body. "Yes, I am."

_"Then let us go."_

Bucky took two bounding strides and then sailed easily over the top of the railing. He hadn't practiced his skills after D had found him, but they hadn't suffered in the least: he pulled what he thought of as _hiding_ around himself, then picked a spot in the middle of the mostly-empty street and in the space between one breath and the next he _moved_. He landed gently on the pavement and began trotting, trusting to the Hiding to keep him unseen. "How do I find someone who needs my help?"

_"The way we usually do,"_ the Dog said, _"looking. You remember how we would find people for Them?"_

"Yes." The joy of his freedom evaporated in an instant.

_"That's it."_ The Dog didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, either.

Bucky took a deep breath. "Right." He looked around himself, then jumped up onto some scaffolding that covered the front of a corner store. Settling into a comfortably-seated position, Bucky let his eyes lose focus, let his mind drift a little. It was far easier to do, without the omnipresent threat of failure hanging over him. As on the balcony, the lives of the people all around him began to pop up, most a uniform shade of comforting pale yellow.

_"Hm,"_ the Dog said, _"what's over that way?"_ The Dog gave Bucky a metaphorical/metaphysical nudge toward the east.

"It looks like…" Bucky squinted. "It looks like I should get closer. I'm good but I'm not _that_ good." He hopped down from the scaffolding and began an easy, ground-devouring lope in the direction of the Dog's push. A few minutes later, he's at the edge of the East River, looking across the water at Queens. Through the lights that line the shore, he can see something out of place, a fuzzy-edged blob of light that looks… "Are they sick?"

_"I don't know,"_ the Dog said.

"All right," Bucky said, settling into a crouch. He jumped and _moved_ across the river, dropping neatly onto a concrete path not too far from what he discovered was an unconscious young woman. He couldn't smell any blood on her, nor the acrid chemical scent of drugs; she didn't respond when he bumped his nose against her cheek. "Can I do anything for her?"

_"I think in this case human assistance is needed,"_ the Dog said, a mildly annoyed tone to his voice. It was gone when he added, _"Asking other humans for help is in keeping with our—"_

"Oh, hi, doggie," the woman said, sitting up and remaining on the path all at once. "You're handsome. And big."

"Hello," Bucky said, still trying to figure out why he was seeing what was essentially double. "Thank you?"

"Oh!" Her dark eyes widened and she put her hands over her mouth. "Oh, wow, you talk. Or I'm dreaming? Maybe I'm dreaming. But I don't remember getting home and into bed." She frowned at him, then looked around.

"I—You're not dreaming," Bucky said, and it occurred to him that he was speaking with a… Spirit? Ghost? Soul? "I think you're—"

"Why am I still in the park?"

_"You're going to have to tell her,"_ the Dog said.

"I'm sorry, miss, but you're, uh, you…died. I'm here to escort you through the veil." If Bucky could have frowned, he would have—he didn't know _how_ he knew that she wasn't going to be able to escape the way he had.

"I died?" She looked around again, then down at her hands, before she looked at Bucky once more. "I died. That's… I feel like I should be more upset than I am, but…" She shrugged. "So why are you here? Did you knock me over and I cracked my skull open or something?"

"No, I'm a… guide," Bucky said. "Um, you can call me James. I'm going to take you to the next place."

"James?" She raised her eyebrows as she looked him over. "You look more like a Smoky or a Shadow or something. I'm Jenna."

"I'm not—" It was really frustrating to not have the usual complement of facial expressions to fall back on. "I'm not a _pet_ ," he said. Bucky backed up and tilted his head toward the river. "All right, Jenna. Would you please come with me?"

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't be named something better, like Shadow." Jenna got to her feet and jumped a little as she realized she was looking down at her body. "Oh, that's just wrong. Can I call someone? Like, the police?"

_"No, but you can,"_ the Dog said.

"I'll take care of it," Bucky said, taking a couple of slow steps away from Jenna's corpse. "Let's go over here, all right?"

"Okay," Jenna said, following him. When they'd gotten about ten feet away from where she'd fallen, she said, "Hey, can I go haunt some of the kids I went to school with? I wanna make Mafalda pee herself, she was such a bitch to me—"

"No, no, you can't do that," Bucky said. Honestly, he'd expected a lot more tears and denial than Jenna was displaying.

"Fine," Jenna said, drawing the vowel out, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. "Guess I can't go say goodbye to my mom and dad, either, huh?"

"No, I'm sorry," Bucky said, staring at the air about a foot in front of his face. It was more difficult than it sounded, since he couldn't actually _see_ the air itself. He tuned out Jenna's voice, slowed his breathing, and tried very hard not to think about how he knew how to do what he was doing. After about a minute, he found he could see _something;_ after another minute, it appeared that a pair of long, gauzy curtains were hanging in mid-air, their hems brushing the sidewalk.

"What's that?" Jenna said, her voice watery.

"That's where you're going," Bucky said, keeping his own voice as kind as possible. "All you have to do is step through."

"It's dark," Jenna said, "I… I don't want to."

_"There's plenty of light on the other side,"_ the Dog said, _"and it's a safe place."_

"The next place is safe and has lots of light," Bucky said, walking around to stand beside her. "Put your hand on my shoulder."

"You've been there?" Her fingers curled deep into the fur of Bucky's shoulder.

"Not the same way you will, but yes," Bucky said, and took a step forward. "My job is to help people, to protect them or guide them to where they need to be."

"You're sure it's okay?" Jenna shuffled along with him, her grasp still tight.

"Yes." He stepped forward again, his nose almost touching the gauze representation of the barrier between the world and the next place.

"Okay," Jenna said, after a few moments. She muffled a sob with her free hand, sniffled, then said again, "Okay. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Jenna," Bucky said, sadness suddenly pressing down on him. He wanted to go back to the tower and see Steve, see him and know that he was safe. "Goodbye."

"'Bye, Shadow," Jenna said, slowly slowly uncurling her hand before she stepped forward, into the space between the curtains.

Bucky waited, head tilted, as she stood there.

Jenna gasped, her entire bearing changing. "Gran? Gran! Oh my God, Gran, I've missed you so much—" She moved fully through the opening and it snapped shut behind her, disappearing.

_"Well done,"_ the Dog said, voice satisfied.

"Thanks," Bucky said, the sorrow from earlier replaced by exhaustion. "I'd like to go home."

"I think that's wise."

 

 

Steve was still up, reading on the sofa, when Bucky got back to their apartment. "Hey, Buck," he said, putting his book down. "How'd it go?"

"It was…" Bucky dropped onto the sofa, then fell over so that he could put his head on Steve's thigh. He'd started the habit while in Faolán's form and hadn't bothered to stop when he was human-shaped. "I had to tell a girl that she'd died."

"Oh," Steve said, resting a gentle hand on Bucky's head. "That's…"

"She wanted to know if she could go haunt some girl that had been mean to her in school," Bucky said, because now that he was thinking about it, it was kind of hilarious.

"Wow," Steve said. "I feel kind of bad about it, but I want to laugh."

"She—Her name is Jenna—I forgot to call the police about her," Bucky said, then groaned a little. Too late now—the cops would _definitely_ want to know how someone in Midtown knew about a dead girl in Long Island City. A lack of evidence that he was involved wouldn't keep them from being certain he was there, and explaining that yes he had been there but as a supernatural dog-creature wouldn't help, either.

"Should we do that now?" Steve worked his fingers into Bucky's hair, rubbing at his scalp much the way he'd rubbed Faolán's head.

"More trouble than it's worth," Bucky said, and laid out what he'd been thinking about. The press of Steve's fingers felt nice enough that he hummed.

"Yeah, those are good points," Steve said. He smiled down at Bucky's hum. "Bed?"

"D'wanna move," Bucky mumbled, already half asleep.

"C'mon, pal," Steve said, patting Bucky's shoulder. "Not too far."

Bucky made an exaggerated effort to push himself upright, complete with overwrought grumbling; when Steve sprang out of the way of his fall back toward the other man, he gave up with a soft laugh. "Spoil-sport."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve said, holding his hands out. He helped Bucky up when the man took them, then, without thinking about it, led Bucky by the hand down the hall to what had quickly become their room. He didn't let go until they were inside, turning toward the bathroom to go start his evening routine.

 

 

Once they were in bed, Steve said, "Other than dealing with someone who had died, was it… Okay?"

"Yeah. It felt good, to be out… To be free." Bucky's voice was soft. "I like exploring with you, and spending time with the others, but… But to be able to do what I'm meant for, instead of having it twisted into something wrong? Yeah. It was _so_ good."

"Good," Steve said, the word surprisingly fierce for how quietly it was said. "Good. And I don't mind if you want to go out for one whole day, or if you want to go out for a couple of hours every day—whatever you need to do."

"I'm going to start slowly," Bucky said. "Jenna was… It was a lot." He was quiet for a moment, then added. "Thank you. I know it's…strange."

"I've met stranger," Steve said, sounding sleepy. "You're welcome."

"Go to sleep, Stevie."

"Hmn."


	17. Nine

A few days before his leave was scheduled to be over, Steve walked into the common room carrying a bag. "Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam smiled as Steve crossed the room to stand beside the arm of the couch. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to tell you that I think I've finally found an answer to the question you asked me, about what made me happy."

"That's great news, Steve." Sam's smile broadened into a grin. "Gonna take up that ultimate fighting career after all?"

"No," Steve said, but he was smiling as well. "No, I think I'm done with fighting. The last few months… You know that Buck and I never left the five boroughs? And we _still_ haven't seen everything there is to see in _this_ city. And there are thousands and thousands of cities, just in _this_ country."

"So the source of your happiness is… Being a tourist?" Sam's smile had vanished into thoughtfulness, his brows drawn together slightly.

"For right now? Yeah, I think so," Steve said, feeling slightly ridiculous even as he did. "I mean, I lived in DC, but the only thing I saw of the Smithsonian was my exhibit and the parts of the Air and Space Museum that you walked through to get there. I could have gone to see the _Hope diamond!_ Or dinosaurs. I could have spent hours on _dinosaurs,_ Sam—Why are you laughing at me?" He wasn't really insulted by the open amusement on Sam's face.

"I'm not, man, I mean it," Sam said, his smile back in his eyes. "Just, y'know, enjoying listening to you being indignant about fossils."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, but it was fond. "So… For right now, just…seeing the world is what's making me happy. Seeing it with Bucky, exploring everything with him, that's it." Steve inhaled deeply, standing up straight as he did. "And with that in mind… Sam, I… The Captain endured for over sixty years while Steve Rogers was in the ice. You and I know he's a powerful voice, and I think that voice needs to keep speaking."

"Sure," Sam said, his own posture and expressions reflecting Steve's seriousness. "Your campaign is still bringing people in for help."

"Not my campaign, yours and the Captain's," Steve said, the correction gentle. "I can't stop fighting and still be Captain America, Sam. Not in any real way."

"Okay. You thought about how that's gonna work, if you want Cap to stick around?" Sam raised his eyebrows at Steve.

"Yes. Talked it over with a couple of people, in fact." Steve swung the bag he'd been carrying down off his shoulder and reached inside; when he drew his hand out, he held the shield. "And we thought that… Well, we thought that if you were willing, you might make a damn fine Captain America."

"Steve," Sam said, staring at the shield, " _Steve_. That's—You want to give _me—_ "

"It's an offer," Steve said, holding the shield out to the other man. "Think about it, if you want. Carry this around a few days, see what you think." He was quiet for a moment, then continued, "I won't lie to you. It can be the heaviest goddamned thing you've ever picked up, some days, the whole damned world expecting you to just take its weight like you're not flesh and blood too."

Sam sat there, gaze flicking from the shield to Steve and back, for nearly a minute. He reached out, slowly, to take the brightly-painted disc from Steve's hands and said, "You think I'm the right guy to be Captain America."

"You do what I do, just a little slower," Steve said, and then, wry and honest, "probably a little smarter, too."

"Well, I've heard about you and parachutes," Sam said, looking up in time to catch the exasperated look on Steve's face.

"That was _once,_ " Steve complained. "Once!"

"What about the elevator?" Sam smirked at him.

"Find me a chute that can open properly in fifteen stories and we can have this conversation again," Steve said, rolling his eyes.

"We should get Tony on it," Sam said. "Challenge him to put the low opening into HALO."

Steve laughed and shook his head. "Knowing Tony, he'd manage _something_."

"Yeah, probably," Sam said. He settled the shield across his knees, looking down at it, all amusement forgotten. "Seriously, Steve. This is… I'm gonna have to take a couple of days."

"Absolutely," Steve said, nodding at him. "We haven't made any plans just yet, so I'll be around."

"Right," Sam said, running his fingers along the outermost stripe. "Thanks, Steve."

"Of course."

 

 

 

Two days later, Bucky handed Steve's phone to him. "I think you just got a text."

"Thanks,"  Steve said, swiping at the screen with his thumb. After a few moments, he looked up and smiled across the kitchen island at Bucky. "Sam said yes."

"I thought he would," Bucky said, returning the smile. "So?"

"So… That's it. I can call Pepper in a few minutes and then we can leave whenever we're ready."

Bucky got up and went around to stand beside Steve, leaning into his shoulder. "You call Pepper and I'll get our bags, okay?"

"Okay," Steve said, shifting his weight to push back against Bucky. He put his phone down so he could slide his arm around Bucky's waist. "I have to admit that I'm a little… I don't know, as much as I want to do this, there's part of me that thinks I shouldn't."

"We can always call Dr. Marijeta," Bucky said, tilting his head over until it bumped softly against Steve's. "Or maybe it's just normal nerves, because you're making a big change in your life."

Steve snorted. "Captain America's real weakness is major life events, not Nazis in his workplace," he said.

"They weren't very bright, though," Bucky pointed out, "since they sent a compromised agent after the very target that compromised it—them— _him—_ in the first place."

Pulling Bucky a little closer, Steve nodded. "Yeah. And that's enough of that. Let's get going, huh?"

Turning in toward Steve, Bucky sighed contentedly. "Yeah. We've got a long way to go and a hell of a lot to see before we hit the end of the line."


End file.
